BRIAN GLANVILLE
writes for worldsoccer.com each week.
BLATTER'S BLUNDER
15/05/08
Good old Sepp Blatter had yet another of his 51 bad ideas a day, and it was all too predictable and swiftly knocked on the head by the European Union. Mind you, I only wish a suggestion of obliging all club teams to field at least six “local” players could be adopted. But long before the resilient Artemio Franchi had kept the EU at bay over legislation which demanded free passage for all EU footballers, it was all too plain that this was a losing battle. You wonder why Blatter wasted his time in suggesting his plan.
Meanwhile the unimpressive Richard Scudamore of the Premier League, the man who has blessedly in this case also failed to implement a scheme – that of foisting on the football world a 39th day of Premiership fixtures, all abroad - has been quick to combat Kevin Keegan’s declaration that the competition has become a four team bore.
Of course it depends on how you define boredom. The climax of this season’s Premiership, with Chelsea and Manchester United neck and neck to the very last Sunday, has indeed been a highly dramatic one. But it cannot obscure the fact that they, Arsenal and Liverpool will remain so far as the title is concerned The Usual Suspects, with the rest of the Premiership teams competing for fifth place; or in many cases, against relegation.
Arsenal’s Arsene Wenger, who has lost Mathieu Flamini to Milan after his best season yet and has been hit by Emmanuel Adebayor for an £80,000 a week salary, plus the prospect of Alexandr Hleb buying his way out of his contract, could hardly be blamed for lamenting the financial hegemony of Roman Abramovich’s Chelsea. As he said, “It’s not right. Every company should work with its natural resources. Morally it’s not right. We are not Chelsea, we have no Abramovich. We work with the resources we have. When we have paid our debt back, we work with higher resources.” Who said that money isn’t everything? Or near as damn it.
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This year’s FA Cup Final was arguably more interesting in hindsight than in prospect. Neither Cardiff City from the so-called Championship nor Portsmouth exactly distinguished themselves on their respective semi finals, both of course at Wembley.
Pompey squeaked home 1-0 against their lower division rivals, West Bromwich Albion, by a solitary goal blemished by a pretty plain hand ball with Albion overall looking the better side. I saw Cardiff’s uninspiring win against a Barnsley team which seemed to have run out of steam after the sensational victories against Liverpool and Chelsea. The accomplished young Welsh international Joe Ledley hooked in the only goal of the game in some style, propitiated by two weak defensive headers, and there is talent to be found in the teen aged midfielder Aaron Ramsey, and the adroit ex Villa playmaker, Peter Whittingham, whose goal on the way to the finals was a small marvel of sheer dexterity and cool control.
Pompey obviously have bigger, harder hitters, but the fact that the most incisive of their attackers, Jermain Defoe, is cup-tied is hardly a help. The lanky Nigerian Nwankwo Kanu can always make something out of nothing; David James, if it, is on his day a formidable goalkeeper, and on his bad days an alarmingly erratic one. Yet it is perhaps in the club’s relative histories that one finds fascination.
Cardiff hadn’t been in a Wembley FA Cup Final since 1927 when they won against Arsenal with one of the oddest goals every seen in any Final. Scored when a straight forward, unexceptional shot by the Cardiff centre forward Hugh Ferguson was fumbled by Arsenal’s Welsh keeper, Danny Lewis, who then knocked the ball over his own line with his elbow. The illustrious Charlie Buchan, who had been on a losing Cup Final side with Sunderland away back in 1913 (he’d left Woolwich Arsenal in 1909 over a squabble about 11 shillings’ expenses!) captained the Gunners from inside-right; on his £100 a goal contract. And either he or centre forward Jimmy Brain should have equalised when presented with an open goal; only for each to leave the bouncing ball to the other. So the Cup left England for the first and till now still the only time.
Cardiff though they entered the Football League (Third South) only in 1920 were quite a power in the 1920s, pipped for the Championship in 1924 only on goal average by Huddersfield. And they had been in the Final two years earlier, losing 1-0 to Sheffield United thanks to a famous moment of distraction by their right half, Wake, leading to endless repetition down the years of the maxim, “He who hesitates is lost.”
Portsmouth’s last FA Cup Final was in 1939 when they surprisingly walloped Wolves, the hot favourites, the team allegedly energised by monkey gland tablets, 4-1. The formidable Major Frank Buckley assiduously nurtured his so called Buckley Boys, so often selling them off that a joker once stuck a notice on the team coach, Stop Me and Buy One.
That season, Wolves were runners up in both Cup and League. In the latter they had walloped Everton the eventual winners, 7-1. Not at Wembley though would they prevail, or even survive. Though under the captaincy of that elegant footballing centre half, soon to captain England and later to be their manager, Stanley Cullis.
The tale is told that Pompey realised they were on to a good thing when the official Wembley autograph book was brought into their dressing room and they saw the Wolves’ players’ signatures were almost illegible, such was their state of nerves. So Pompey went out and won easily 4-1, the first goal for them being scored by their lively inside left Bert Barlow who had joined them from Wolves only that season.
Three years later, as a 10-year-old, I was at Wembley to see Portsmouth, with six of their 1939 Cup winners, lose the Final of the so called London War Cup 2-0 to Brentford, then a more than decent First Division team, who had knocked out Arsenal in a replayed semi-final at Chelsea. I saw the first, drawn, game. Both Brentford goals went to their young left-winger Leslie Smith, capped by England in a Bucharest in their last official pre war game. And the Brentford inside right and close friend of Smith was George Wilkins; father of that future England international, Ray.
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Last Sunday, I saw Chelsea, admittedly losing John Terry in that fearful crash with keeper Cech – did he have to come out so far? – plod their way to a draw with dour Bolton. Though even victory wouldn’t have enabled them to beat Manchester United – beneficiary of some odd refereeing decisions at Wigan, where Paul Scholes was lucky not to be dismissed – for the Championship.
Chelsea’s unbeaten record at Stamford Bridge stretches back into almost prehistoric times yet what is it really worth I wondered, having also recently seen them pegged to a home draw in the final stages by Wigan? If Grant wins in Moscow – which seems day by day a dafter choice for the European Final – perhaps Avram Grant will stay as manager, but I cannot see he has in any way improved the team which Jose Mourinho built. Last Sunday both Michael Ballack and Frank Lampard were mediocre in midfield, and though Andrii Shevchenko, after such a disappointing season, did put away Chelsea’s goal, you wondered why Salomon Kalou never got on. Bolton’s equaliser moreover hardly came from the blue; they had previously threatened more than once to score, with Ashley Cole obliged to clear off the line.
All credit to Roy Hodgson’s Fulham for their great escape, winning the third away game in a row after for so long seeming down and out. Had it not been for those shocking injuries to Jimmy Bullard and Brian McBride, they’d hardly have been in such sustained danger. Though Lawrie Sanchez’s transfer and tactical polities were both mistaken. Now he is having to sue Fulham for his money. Certainly the law is on his side, however disappointing his regime.
As for Derby County, they went out with a predictable whimper, frankly a disgrace to the Premiership. With the very rare exception; such as the impressive show I saw them put up, in front of their amazingly loyal 33,000 crowd, against Manchester United. A 1-0 defeat may have flattered them but, as against that, they forced the splendid young Ben Foster, playing his first game in goal for many months, into two dramatic saves. But where does all this put Paul Jewell? It was his decision to step on to a sinking ship, but he did little or nothing to improve matters. Constantly telling us that things will be better next season was hardly enough. Was he blameless?
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