Colin Sheridan: A study of the classics - Adidas, Puma and Umbro
ICONIC STYLE: Diego Maradona wore Puma Kings, a boot made famous by his pre-game warm-up routines, usually executed with boots untied, the famous white tongue of the boot flapping like a beagle's ear as he juggled. Pic: Jorge Duran/AFP via Getty Images
When the American theoretical physicist Enrico Ferni declared, “I am become death…destroyer of worlds…”, I believe he meant it in the context of being the architect of the atomic bomb, and not as a man in his early forties playing six-a-side soccer late on a Monday night, devoid of any discernable touch.
A marauding weapon of mass destruction capable of denying any self-employed opponent (or teammate for that matter) their livelihood for however long someone should end up on crutches due to a mistimed tackle, or, more embarrassingly, being in the way of 15 stones that just can't “slow down” (slowing down is a relative term).
Yeah, I’m sure Dr Ferni felt bad about the bomb and all, but did he ever have to reflect on a fresh air in front of an open goal?
There are levels of commitment when it comes to pick-up soccer, and purchasing appropriate footwear is one of them. It’s hard now, compared to before. Everything is white, or luminous green and microplastic and lighter than a butterfly's wing.
Now, there are no laces, no tongues, no girth. I’ve not been able to bring myself to do it, not because I am a commitmentphobe, but because it seems a betrayal to the first, second and third loves of my footballing life - the Adidas World Cup, the Puma King, and the Umbro Speciali.
We were not a house of excess. Having older siblings meant handmedowns, and while I cared little or nothing about inheriting and wearing my sister's shirt (blouse) to school, football boots mattered. My eldest brother wore Patrick (Platinis), the next wore LeCoq Sportif before transitioning to the classics, and it was that transition that ignited the love. First amongst them, the Prince of Boots…three white stripes and long flaccid tongue…the Adidas World Cup.
While school friends cruised the discos of West Mayo looking for romance, I could be found unscrewing the cogs from a brand new pair of World Cups and dutifully breaking them in for my brother by walking thousands of steps on the carpets of my house. Playing an unhealthy amount of football for a 21-year-old, he could have three pairs on the go at once. I saw it as my duty to care for those boots and so knew each pair the way a farmer knows his lambs.
My assiduity was not entirely selfless. A half-size bigger than he, I knew my diligence would lead me to inherit a pair of those glorious bastards as soon as he wore them out, or as soon as the ground hardened and he switched to the moulded Mundial. No matter the smaller, tighter size, I curled my toes up like a chinese ballerina and suffered for my art. An aspiring free-taker, I understood a “fulller boot” to be more beneficial for kicking.
By the time I had earned the right to own my own, I switched to the Puma King, a boot made famous by Maradona and his pre-game warm-up routines, usually executed with boots untied, the famous white tongue of the boot flapping like a beagle's ear as he juggled. Wider than the World Cup, it better suited my broader foot. It was a serious boot for serious footballers. To wear it flippantly was an affront to el Diego himself.
Dreams of Mayo unfulfilled, my playing career entered a third and final stage - the Speciali phase. Made by Umbro, this was an outlier of a boot that always existed on a parallel plane to the others, but never with the same ubiquity amongst the stars.
Another exquisite tongue and immaculate stitching, it was a boot-lover's boot.
Nowadays, it doesn’t matter what boot I wear, my limitations are so pronounced no amount of German engineering could improve me, but…maybe…just maybe, investing in a pair of the classics would at least make me less like death, the destroyer of worlds, and more like Riquelme. Tonight, I’ll find out.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Erling Haaland has played six Premier League games and scored ten goals, yet, despite his outrageous efficiency (at his current rate of scoring, he is on track to score 68 goals this season), could it be that he’s not that good at football, and because of that, it’s why Pep Guardiola seems to so passively loathe him?
Haaland is less a striker in the traditional sense, and more an Avenger character drawn by someone on mushrooms. He plays like he’s an older kid crushing kindergarteners.
There are many other players his size, but few of them are attackers and none possess his touch and power, not to mention his flagrant selfishness in front of goal. He is a blunt instrument, devoid of mystery. You could imagine that, when Manchester City bought him, he came with instructions.
We all wondered would the Premier League be his undoing, as he underwent his initiation or “Sounessification”- that of “this league” finding everyone out - but it’s already clear after his six games and nearly twice as many goals that Haaland will absolutely do it on a wet Tuesday night in Stoke.
But is he any good? Is he just Cristiano Ronaldo without the stepover? Is he just Chris Wood with a yard of pace? There is little subtlety to him, that’s for sure. City will never claim to have bought him for his nuance (most likely they bought him to deny every other team his goals), and he is the antithesis of the archetypal Guardiola player.
He is a finisher, not a creator or a malleable piece of clay to be moulded into whatever the team needs on a given day. He is not a chess piece. He is a kango hammer. He will succeed, but may not be remembered, proving in the hearts of fans at least, it's not always about the bottom line.
Off the Ball, the Irish sports media company synonymous with their daily shows on Newstalk, turns 20 years old this year, and given how their creation and evolution has changed the Irish sports media landscape, it is an anniversary worthy of celebration.
Like them or not, the company has proved a breeding ground for young journalistic talent - both of the old and new school - that heretofore had only one avenue open to them when it came to broadcast journalism in this country - the notoriously impregnable national broadcaster, RTÉ.
The proof of the “academy'' dynamic is ubiquitous across the current mediaverse (see the hugely popular Second Captains network and Colm Parkinson's Smaller Fish GAA podcast), and last week, they bade farewell to another, the affable Eoin Sheehan, who is dropping his mic to travel and broaden his already broad mind. His seat will not be empty for long.
There is little that unites the football community. Not a rational reaction to racism (incredibly, alarmingly divisive), nor homophobia (see previous), nor sportswashing. VAR, however, has achieved the impossible, and the almost universal loathing of the technological advancement in the game will undoubtedly be its legacy.
Yesterday's disallowing of a seemingly perfect (not to mention brilliant) Brighton goal further drove the stake into the heart of almost everybody who believes football to be an imperfect game made perfect by its many imperfections. No good will come from this…
