Three and in – not just another football blog

In a professional career spanning almost two decades, Simon Smith has played for over sixty-seven clubs. The ultimate utility player, as his pace has diminished Simon has managed to reinvent himself time and again, from poacher to holding midfielder, centre-back to goalkeeper. Now that his website has been closed down, we have exclusive access to his weekly column.

I was as surprised as anyone to see Glenn Hoddle throw his hat into the ring for the vacant England manager’s job. I was similarly (but not quite so) surprised to find out quite how long it has been since he made those comments. They obviously overshadowed his short reign as top managerial dog but that’s hardly surprising. I think that, for me, it’s not so much the comments themselves that I find distasteful; it was the ignorance behind them that was so offensive. ‘England will play in the Christmas tree formation.’ ‘I think that the Christmas tree formation is the way forward for England.’ Even writing those down here make me feel dirty. There were many scapegoats for England’s dismal 2010 World Cup showing but I seemed to be the only one tracing our problems back to those catastrophic two or three games that set us back at least 50 years in terms of tactics.

Maybe this is just one man’s opinion, but I would rather have a manager who is tactically astute and analyses the opposition than one who arranges his players in a shape that he likes. They may look awesome in those aerial shots from the Goodyear Blimp but I think England should be setting their sights higher than that. Perhaps I’m being unfair though. Perhaps Hoddle would be an excellent appointment and we would have great success with a smiley face formation. Who am I to say that his (probable) insistence on a happy puppy playing with a kitten formation won’t get us out of the group stages at the Euros?

Some observers have also raked up his close relationship with Eileen Drewery and some less noteworthy comments he made about karma. Regarding the England job, Hoddle confused me on Monday when he said, ‘If I were to die tomorrow, my life would be incomplete.’ Wasn’t the whole problem that Eileen said everyone gets loads more?! Reincarnation is a complex issue. Roberto Baggio is a practicing Buddhist and I always found it tricky during my time in Italy to convince him to do anything he didn’t want to do. The whole ‘you only live once’ thing doesn’t really hold much water. I believe it’s the same for cats. Fair play to The Divine Ponytail though, he didn’t know a lot of English but he learned enough to utter just one sentence to me. ‘Perhaps in your next life you’ll be reborn as a footballer.’ Cracking banter, that’s the sort of thing only close friends can get away with!

Hoddle is clearly hoping to put his mistakes behind him and is worried that they will not cost him to dearly in the future. It is something that we can all relate to even if we don’t all create absurd paradoxes in our own logic while doing so. A few years ago everything was lined up for me to have a second spell at Luton Town. The bossman was new to the job and I think the chairbossman took a backseat when it came to signings so they were all happy for it to happen and I was keen to lay one or two ghosts to rest at Kennilworth Road. The fans were quick to fill in the bossman and chairbossman about my previous stint and had clearly not yet forgiven me. The protests were intense and very well attended.

I was a striker when I first plied my trade in Bedfordshire and I must say I wasn’t at my most prolific. I had one especially barren run that came to an end at a home match against Wycombe. I buried an easy chance and made straight for the fans. I punched the air and made it clear just how much the goal meant to me. I reached down to stretch my shirt for the badge kiss. I am still not sure what it was that made me sneeze, perhaps I’d overdone the pepper on my pre-match cheese, but I can see how it could have looked like spitting from a distance.

I know I could have done a job in my new role as a midfielder and I often think about what could have been. Absolutely no hard feelings this end and I just hope that Hatters fans have forgiven me now. I’m still available. If you provide the antihistamines then I’ll provide the solid keeper performances!

In other news I see that Wayne Rooney has broken the arm of a fan and it is good to see not only that it was an accident but that he has already been forgiven. Happy the kid is alright and he’ll have a heck of a story for the rest of his life! In actual fact the lad was a United fan in the home stand at Wolves so if anything Wayne was saving the stewards a job as he’d only have been evicted anyway. I know first hand the dangers of away fans sitting in the home end at a ground. More times than I care to recall I have heard boos emanating from ‘our’ fans whenever I touch the ball so clearly the police are doing a pretty shoddy job of separating the supporters. Good on Wazza for taking matters into his own hands.

Must be said that even us pros can be a bit wild when pulling the trigger in those pre-game warm ups! I’m still reminded of the time that one of my looseners ended up in the stands and caught a baby on the head. It must be noted that it was a mishit and also skimmed the advertising boards so it’s not fair to have a go at me about not having enough power in my shot to wake a baby. Admittedly (and thankfully) there was not enough pace on the ball to cause the baby any distress but it did wake her up so those chants were completely inaccurate. I’m not ashamed to say that they got to me a bit and I did miss a few sitters as a result. It was also selfish of me to deliberately over-hit every corner to try and make a point.

One to Watch

Now, I spend a lot of my time absorbing as much football as I can. I love how much Premiership and Football League football coverage there is out there but I also like to scour the more obscure leagues that a lot of people miss. There’s a lot of talent out there waiting to be discovered so I’ll bring you a ‘one to watch’ every now and then. This week: Lionel Messi. He’s only 24 but has already bagged a few goals for Barcelona. I really think he could become a decent player.

Follow me on twitter, @simon9smithpro

‘My best moment? I have a lot of good moments but the one I prefer is when I kicked the hooligan.’ – Eric Cantona

‘Now we have to wait to see this issue decided and then the Manchester player and I will have to clear things up. Depending on who ends up in the wrong, one of us will have to apologise.’ – Luis Suarez

This Saturday lunchtime, Manchester United will travel to Liverpool for the fourth round of the FA Cup. United’s left back, Patrice Evra, is likely to receive the worst abuse seen on these shores since Sol Campbell crossed the North London divide. I write these words seventeen years to the day since I sat, an impressionable 10 year old, a few feet from my idol as he attempted to quite literally kick racism out of football. Pros and ex pros from every club supported Cantona, the general consensus being not shock that it had happened but merely surprise that it didn’t happen more frequently. A divisive Frenchman taking exception to racist language? Plus ça change. Thousands of words have been written about the Luis Suarez incident but nobody seems willing to accuse the Uruguayan of one significant offence. Being a racist.

Tony Evans, Times writer and Liverpool fan, wrote an excellent piece about his disappointment at the majority of LFC fans supporting the striker but still insisted Suarez had been guilty only of ‘using racist language.’ Indeed, this is the nature of the FA charge. Racist language. Even amongst the United blogs, highly critical of Liverpool and their talisman, most pieces contained a caveat insisting they were not accusing the striker of racism, simply of employing racist language. This seems to have been the case across the board. It’s the footballing equivalent of the argument we’ve all had in which the semantics of whether someone is/is being an arsehole are debated at length. Well, enough is enough.

Let’s try putting it another way; if a man rapes someone, we tend to brand him a rapist. Nobody says things like, ‘Oh yes, he did rape someone on that occasion but really he’s not that kind of bloke.’ But with the race issue it’s totally different. What a difference a letter makes. It’s much like the ‘not that kind of player’ defence used after a player has committed a dreadful foul ending the season of a fellow professional. Just once I’d like someone to come out and say, ‘He is that kind of player, this was an accident waiting to happen.’ Who is that kind of player? And, more importantly, who are these mythical racists? Where do they live? Nick Griffin has consistently stated the BNP is not a racist party so clearly it’s acceptable to say what you like so long as you simply deny the allegations.

For what its worth, I do think Suarez is a racist. Does this mean I think he rues the abolition of slavery? No. But, as the late Patrice O’Neill so memorable stated, not all racist walk around wearing pointy hats. Or, as another comedian, Bill Burr, pointed out, ‘real racism is subtle’:

Suarez admits using the offensive term word at least once. I have played in hundreds of football games in my life and never uttered a racial slur. In return, nobody has ever referred to me as a ‘yid’ during such a match and if they had I wouldn’t waste time analysing the precise nuances of their tone. The cultural argument holds no water since Suarez has played in Europe for years. The idea that it was jocular is a nonsense given the comments were made during a heated exchange with a Manchester United player during a spiky encounter at Anfield. A racist word was used in a bid to rile Evra, ergo the offender was guilty of racism. Michael Richards from Seinfeld is branded racist for his ill-advised rant at the Laugh Factory but at least he was attempting (utterly without success) to be humorous. Suarez was seeking simply to provoke. And he should not be let off lightly. Some have claimed an eight game ban is Draconian but most people would be sacked for a similar comment in the workplace.

Almost as bad as the incident itself was the response of Liverpool Football Club as they lurched from one PR disaster to another seemingly only able to dig a larger hole for themselves. First the preposterous sight of Suarez donning a T-shirt in support of himself greeted us. Dalglish besmirched his reputation as the finest player in Liverpool’s history not only by shifting the blame entirely onto Evra but also, perhaps the worst of his offences, wearing the shirt himself. Not a good look on a 60-year-old man. As Paul McGrath suggested, how much classier might it have seemed to warm up wearing Kick It Out tops? Clearly nobody had a word with the Liverpool PR department as Alan Hansen spent the evening using the word ‘coloured’ on Match of the Day before ‘God’ himself (Robbie Fowler) blacked up for a night out dressed as Lionel Richie and rather foolishly tweeted a photograph. Stay classy, Merseyside.

Liverpool seem concerned people think of the club as inherently racist. I do not. Football clubs aren’t sentient beings. It calls to mind Stewart Lee mocking the ‘values of the Carphone Warehouse’ as they attempted to extricate themselves from another race row, on Big Brother. The Carphone Warehouse values involve only selling phones and Liverpool’s are only football related surely. This persecution complex and martyrdom of the Uruguayan aids nobody. Ferguson didn’t instruct the United players to wear T-shirts all those years ago, he calmly weighed up the situation before making any public pronouncements. Dalgligh needs to realise, like Walter White in Breaking Bad, actions have consequences. Oldham’s Tom Adeyemi must have thought the trip to Anfield would be the highlight of his career to date yet it was marred by racial abuse from the Kop that reduced the young midfielder to tears. There can be little doubt that this would not have happened without all that came before. This is a simple case of cause and effect and the Liverpool manager has to shoulder some responsibility.

All football fans tend to be tarred with the same brush but it’s a broad spectrum. The fact that Emmanuel Adebayor is the Spurs player who has had monkey noises directed at him when his team-mate is Gareth Bale illustrates just how stupid supporters can be. That said, I can recall a time when racial abuse was commonplace in the stands, not least that remarkable night in 1995, and I found it genuinely heart-warming to see Suarez booed away at Wigan. Broadly speaking, as a society, we have moved from booing black players to booing racists.

This is a bigger issue than just Liverpool and Manchester United. John Terry meets Anton Ferdinand again this weekend standing by his assertion that he was simply incredulously repeating the racist abuse the QPR defender was accusing him of. Gus Poyet then needlessly weighed in to do little more than sully my generation’s memory of him as wonderful player. The Terry defence is as ludicrous as Matthew Simmons (Eric’s detractor in the vile leather jacket) claiming he was simply shouting ‘Off you go for an early bath.’ André Villas-Boas, like Dalglish, responded to the allegation by immediately stating he would support his captain ‘no matter what’. I don’t understand this. Surely if it’s proven that Terry hurled racial abuse at an opposing player then he should lose the support of his manager. Particularly given England’s Brave’s status as the pantomime villain of British football. And I write as somebody who takes the ball to the corner flag to wind down the clock when playing computer games.

Despite the quotation at the top of the page, Suarez has singularly refused to issue an apology to Evra, opting instead for a Jeremy Clarkson style ‘I’m sorry if anyone was offended by my comments’ cop-out. Or should that be Kop-out? And so the fires continue to rage. If I can be permitted recourse to one final bit of stand-up comedy, there is an old Eddie Murphy routine in which he talks about walking along the street behind an elderly white couple. Feeling nervous, they stop to let Eddie pass. The anecdote concludes with the comic asserting, ‘Well I was so offended I just went ahead and mugged them.’ When the Liverpool fans abuse Evra on Saturday as a direct result of him reporting a racist incident that damaged their club’s reputation, they will be making just as much sense. And we all know where such taunting can lead.

They say you can never go back.

As last season approached its dramatic denouement, giddy with excitement I decided to pick the best Manchester United XI of my time going to football matches (1988-present). Yes, these things are entirely subjective and mostly pointless but that doesn’t stop them being quite good fun. After due (or should that be Jew?) consideration, I went for Schmeichel in goal, a back four of Neville, Ferdinand, Stam and Irwin, a midfield comprising Ronaldo, Keane, Scholes and Giggs then Cantona and Van Nistelrooy up front. I picked substitutes too, primarily because I got carried away. On the bench then, Van Der Sar, Bruce, Vidic, Robson, Beckham, Solskjaer and Rooney. All under the watchful eye of Mike Phelan of course. It struck me that I really have been exceptionally lucky. No place in the squad for the likes of Cole, Kanchelskis, Evra, Sheringham, Fletcher or Yorke. Not the only notable omissions. I tweeted my verdict and immediately received a text from my brother, an Arsenal fan. ‘What about Hughes? You loved him as a kid.’ I did. I still do.

Now there is only one valid choice of favourite player for any United fan of my generation. King Eric. Le Dieu. But just as there is only one correct answer to the question, ‘who is your favourite Simpsons character?’ sometimes it’s worth thinking outside the box and determining a number two. And though he may not have even made my bench, best and favourite are not the same thing, and Sparky is unquestionably my Chief Wiggum.

Mark Hughes played for Manchester United from 1980 to 1986 then again from 1988 to 1995. During these two stints he notched up 467 appearances for the club and scored 163 goals. That tells the whole story in one sense but in another it tells you nothing. Those statistics are not the reason I loved the man and his tree trunk thighs. Age is a key factor. I am too young to remember Hughesy’s first spell at Old Trafford but his second neatly coincided with my burgeoning interest in the beautiful game.

One of my earliest sporting memories is the Welshman’s brace against Barcelona in the Cup Winners’ Cup Final of 1991. Both the competition and United’s goalkeeper on the day are no longer with us but to me it feels like yesterday. I can picture the second goal perfectly and regularly do. My mind’s eye always opts for the angle of the camera placed in the bottom right hand corner of the net. The ball breaks free, Sergio Busquets’ Dad (yes, really) comes charging out of his goal in those ridiculous tracksuit bottoms, Hughes knocks the ball past him but he’s gone too wide surely, Barry Davies thinks so, the 6 year old me thinks so, and then, from an impossible angle, bang, it nestles beautifully into that bottom corner. I didn’t know the game was against the former club at which he’d been deemed a failure, or that it was United’s first European trophy in 23 years, or that Barcelona were huge favourites on the night. It didn’t matter. Everything and everyone seems larger than life when you’re small and Leslie Mark Hughes seemed the biggest of the lot.

Fast forward to 1992. The inaugural Premier League season. I distinctly remember larking about with my toys on my own. In the next room my Dad is watching United take on Liverpool at Old Trafford. He had sat me in front of the European final but clearly decided a league game was less crucial in terms of building character. Still, the TV is on in here too even if I’m not focused on it. A cheer from the next room alerts me to the fact that United have pulled one back with ten minutes to spare. I look up and see it’s that man Hughes again. He’s lobbed Grobbelaar. It only dawns on me as I type this that it might just have been the first lob I ever saw. I put down Kermit and Fozzie and decide to watch the remainder of the game. Teams don’t come back from 2 goals behind surely? 90th minute. Diving header. Hughes, M.

Fast forward again, this time to 1994. I am by this stage an addict. I have seen lobs, headers, volleys, you name it. I’ve also seen my team win the title. As my Dad memorably told me ‘I’ve waited 26 years for this, you saw it in 2.’ I was blessed. And now United are on the verge double for the first time in their history. At this point I am well read on such matters and am aware of the fact that even the great Sir Matt Busby never managed to lead his side to the league and cup in the same season. Deep into extra time of the FA Cup semi-final and Oldham are 1-0 up. United look devoid of ideas. The ball is hopefully punted long, Oldham fail to clear, it hangs in the air for an eternity before Sparky strikes the sweetest volley you will ever see. Pandemonium in our household. We scream then run round the dining room table before collapsing in a bundle on the sofa in hysterics. He’ll hate me for mentioning this but it is the only time I can recall my brother celebrating a United goal before or since. Let the record show it was the goal that won the double. To this day if my team are behind late on I will implore them to ‘do an Oldham’.

We all have hundreds of such memories. People and places that perfectly evoke a time to which we can never return. Do I care that the lad from Wrexham went on to manage City? No. What I remember is my Dad’s VHS of the 1990 FA Cup final that I watched and rewatched at a time when live football on the TV was rare. Yet another double from Hughes. And the moment on the 92/93 season review video when Giggs skins his aging marker and the commentator says ‘it’s like a Mini trying to catch a Porsche’ then a pause as the young Welshman whips in a perfect cross for his compatriot to bury, concluding ‘and there’s the Rolls Royce waiting in the middle.’ Perhaps I think of those goals more often than the man himself, maybe that’s the nature of being a fan. Hughes was everything I’d like to be if I were a professional footballer and boy would I like to have been one. Strong, brave, a propensity towards scissor kicks and outrageous volleys that bordered on the staggering coupled with an incredible awareness and ability to hold the ball up. Calm and quiet off the field, quite the opposite on it. If my relationship with Wayne Rooney is much like Mad Men, almost impossible to love however hard I try, then Mark Hughes must be compared to The Sopranos. Pure, unadulterated enjoyment. And he had two spells for the club.

They say you can never go back. Fuck ‘em.

—

You can find ‘Big Ask’ on twitter here.