BLOG By BRYAN COONEY
WHERE once there was calm and chutzpah at Old Trafford, there is now chaos
and caterwauling. The beast of Manchester United appears to be grievously
wounded, and it may be only a matter of time before someone reaches for his
elephant gun.
Put aside for a moment the paradoxical nature of the team’s impressive
performances in Europe (the tie against Shakhtar Donetsk aside): concentrate
instead on their standing in the Barclays Premier League, where United find
themselves so far removed from leaders Arsenal that 20-20 vision becomes a
prerequisite in establishing their present location.
Some internet pundits, then, are inviting mob rule back into our society by
seeking the summary dismissal of David Moyes. The Chosen One has evidently
careered down a couple of divisions of their esteem and morphed into the
Tainted One. Any delay in his departure would be catastrophic, they say.
The zealotry is by no means contained to the anti-Moyes lobby: others
recommend that if any blood is spilled in the Theatre of Dreams, it should
belong to the strolling players rather than the leading man. So the names of
Rio Ferdinand, Patrice Evra, Nani (even though he recently signed a five-year
contract), Tom Cleverley, Ashley Young, Antonio Valencia and Marouane Fellaini
figure at the core of their indictment.
We’ll pause the bedlam button and return to Fellaini. Didn’t he cost £27.5
million only some months ago? Isn’t he the afro-haired monster who chastised,
if not terrorised, the most able defenders when he wore Everton colours last
season? Hasn’t he played 47 times for a Belgium team that promises to further
Europe’s reputation in next year‘s World Cup? There again, does any footballer
deserve unequivocal judgement after only six appearances for the club?
Returning to the bedlam, let‘s not forget the muck-throwing contest
featuring Roy Keane and Sir Alex Ferguson - you’d be forgiven for feeling
you’re at Knockhill on a wet, motocross day. There was a short suspension of
hostilities followed the publication of Fergie’s book, but they’re at it again,
with the former player claiming that his old boss, now a director and club
ambassador, is currently on a power and ego trip. Hey, is the Irishman an
implacable opponent, or what?
Who could have imagined Old Trafford to be surrounded by such hoopla and
hysteria in this winter of 2013? I imagine even Nostradamus would have
struggled with such prognostications.
But let’s briefly inspect the ground promising to subside underneath Moyes.
These are still early days, but I remain confident that this son of Bearsden
will find the bricks, the cement and the all-important plumb line to put the
Old Trafford house back in the best of order. Surely, there is much work to do,
starting with a major pruning of playing staff in next month‘s transfer window,
but it is surely not beyond a man of his capabilities.
Now for the alternatives and hypotheses. This football life inevitably
carries the napalm element of shock and awe: what if the man who was legitimised
by Ferguson cannot find the apposite domestic recipe? What if it becomes
apparent that his magic hasn’t travelled from Liverpool to Manchester, and that
his former employers at Everton somehow confiscated his box of tricks during
the removal? What if he’s just not the proper fit for a club with such immense
expectations?
To whom would United turn? Oh, for that 20-20 vision of my youth. I can see
no obvious candidates, without ripping the world’s managerial order apart and
United spending mega millions in compensation.
There is, however, one solution that might please most, if not all,
segments of the Manchester United society. The frugal Glazers could open a
window of opportunity and ask Fergie to lay down his goblets of red wine, put
his ambassadorial hat into storage and stop trotting around the globe (New York
one day, McDiarmid Park the next) like some demented Ban-Ki Moon.
In shorter form, they could ask him to reconsider his retirement options
and come back to the womb as a caretaker. There are, of course, a few powerful
arguments against this happening, with Fergie perhaps leading some of them and
his dear wife Cathy taking up the slack.
But would such protestations prevent a comeback for a man who, in a
figurative sense has never left the building? Might the temptation of a
Lazarus-style return not prove too great for someone who, according to Keane,
is the supreme egoist?
TALKING of Keane, did you manage to catch the much-vaunted programme, The Best of Enemies, last night?
ITV 4 plundered archive history and presented the gladiatorial contest
between the former Manchester United captain and his arch rival, PatrickVieira, down the Nineties and early Noughties, as United and Arsenal strove for
supremacy.
The emphasis was concentrated as much on speech as on action. Keane was
initially saturnine and slightly sinister, never more so when he refused to
apologise for some of his more unforgivable excesses (think that brutal tackle
on Alf-Inge Haaland).
But this was television and consequently the mood of oppression had to be
captured. The film makers, mindful of the current appeal of the gangster genre,
brought both parties to what looked like the (cold) vaults beneath one of
London’s motorways.
In spite of his surroundings, Keane eventually managed to smile and bring
warmth to a normally chilling persona. But as he demonstrated with Haaland, he
appears to be a man motivated by revenge. None more so than when he left
viewers with that short but highly revealing profile of Sir Alex in exile.
Martin Samuel, sports columnist of my old paper, the Daily Mail, seemed
somehow offended by the disclosure. He felt Keane had diminished himself
because of his insistence on reopening the wounds with Fergie. As if…
Has Martin, like myself a former tabloid Rottweiler, gone all poodle on us?
Has he forgotten those red-top principles of impact? I mean, would he have
actually stopped Keane in mid-rant to say: “Look, Roy, me old darlin’, we don’t
want none of that controversy!” ?
I imagine not.
THERE are only a few people who might be deemed essential to society.
Nelson Mandela was certainly one, leaving an indelible impression on all those
he met.
Last weekend, after watching the myriad tributes to him dominate my
television screen, I phoned two of my former Fleet Street colleagues who
actually managed to get close to the great man. I wanted to know how he’d
impacted on their lives.
Back in 1990, the first guy had been reporting England’s rebel tour in
South Africa the day Mandela was released from his 27-year prison ordeal. The
Daily Star asked him to suspend his cricket duties in order to report on
something of far greater import.
This former news reporter, delighted to obliged, despatched his duties with
aplomb. In fact, I still remember his intro in the front-page splash: “Nelson
Mandela raised his right arm and shook his fist at history.”
So how did he feel all these years on? “I don’t often cry,” he told me,
“but this was an occasion I couldn’t help myself. I broke down several times.”
My second acquaintance was alleged to have met Mandela in Atlanta. So, how
did he remember him? “We were in the press room and suddenly these two South
African girls, whom I knew, ran past, shouting that Mandela was in the
building. I ran after them and suddenly found myself in a line-up.
“He was shaking people’s hands. When he reached me, I asked him, very
properly, if he was enjoying himself. He looked right through me - and moved
on. He totally blanked me!”
