Billy McMoyes must look for the hero inside himself

BY ANDY RITCHIE

IT doesn’t take a forensic inspection of his teenage years to reveal that Davie Moyes the footballer used to idolise Billy McNeill the manager.

There was, of course, much to idolise. McNeill was the dream role model at Celtic: the first British captain to hoist the European Cup. He was tall, authoritative, closing in on imperious, with a back that was fashioned out of a ramrod.

You are not allowed such idolatry in a football dressing room, however, without there being a payback from the less charitable elements of this crazy place. Moyes was promptly rechristened Billy McMoyes.

I’m trying to find some charity in me and therefore won’t criticise him for hero worship of Big Billy. It’s quite natural to have heroes. Listen, when I do my wee, if infrequent, spots of karaoke in a certain tavern, I imagine myself as Glasgow’s answer to Michael Buble. In my mind, if no-one else’s, I am Michael Buble. I’m not so sure the Canadian would give me a similar endorsement.

Getting back to the point of this blog, however, you imagine that Davie (or his alter ego Billy McMoyes), in his new situation at Manchester United, would want to replicate the bearing of his one-time hero. Instead, he looks very alone, even isolated, at the moment.

As United head towards a Premier League appointment at Chelsea this Sunday, some recent memories of him are less than flattering. When they played and lost to Swansea in the FA Cup, the TV cameras were panning in on him and he looked more facially distraught than I’ve ever seen him.

It didn’t seem to me as if there was anyone to help him in that dug-out. And that, to me, was his first big mistake. To bring someone in with you to Old Trafford is one thing, but to turn over most of the backroom staff must have caused some upheaval, because these people had been there for some time and had developed relationships with the players.

You know what the Dutch are like. They love each other. Well, most of them do. The talk flying about the business is that Robin Van Persie is not happy that Rene Meulensteen (now manager of Fulham) was bagged - if in fact this was the case. I see Moyes claimed recently that it was the Dutchman’s own decision to leave. Indict me as a cynic if you choose, but I can’t say I’m altogether convinced of that.

And what about Mike Phelan, Fergie’s assistant? He has made noises that he would like to have moved out on his own, but he hasn’t got a job yet. Shouldn’t there have been a place for him in that Theatre of Dreams, even if it wasn‘t plum centre of the orchestra stalls? So I imagine there might every well be a bit of disquiet in the dressing room over their twin departures.

Whatever, Moyes had people in there who’d been over the course and knew what was required. They were very good at their jobs: Fergie wouldn’t have kept them if they had been dummies. He was a damned good manager, and liked to keep damned good people around him. Yet roughly a week after Moyes was appointed, they were out.

In came people like Phil Neville, who hadn’t even been on the Everton coaching staff for very long, Steve Round and Jimmy Lumsden. Coaching-wise, they’re about as anonymous as David Cameron’s PR assistants.

Now, people have suggested that the team which won last season’s Premier League was the worst in the history of that Premier League. Well, if that were true, it must have had a good backroom staff to get them across the line. The help that they could have supplied to the newcomer would have been very beneficial at this moment. But that’s gone and Moyes finds himself behind the eight ball. Whether he is good enough to escape from this tricky situation is another matter.

Do I feel sorry for him? No. I can’t say I’d extend empathy to any managers. They’re paid plenty and are old enough to understand the rules. Davie, for me, is not my kind of guy: he’s a bit of a cold fish, but I must admit I was quite impressed by him before he secured the biggest job in English football. He had an extended time at Everton and probably was in line for a long-service medal from the dear old chairman, Bill Kenwright. Yeah, he did very well, although, significantly, he didn’t fill up the mantle-piece full of silverware. But Everton is an entirely different animal from United.

In many ways, I was surprised at his appointment. Should I have been surprised? Perhaps not. Let’s be honest: there wasn’t a queue the length of Sauchiehall Street of managers with the right credentials who were pushing themselves forward. People in the game thought it was like trying to follow Frank Sinatra at a karaoke (there I go again). Who would want that kind of responsibility?

They would be following the most successful manager in the game. Ever. God in a tracksuit. The percentages state that you’ll never live up to such high expectations. No, the managers who should have been in the frame - JoseMourinho, Carlo Ancelotti, Jurgen Klopp, Pep Guardiola, Fabio Capello - would have been thinking to themselves: “No, after you - I’ll let someone else have it before I have it.”

Smart thinking from them. I don’t believe for a moment that Davie Moyes would have been No 1 on the list. There would have been others, but any approaches would have been all done on the quiet. How many more names were on his list? One thing is certain: Alex Ferguson wouldn’t have picked someone who would have refused him.

But ask yourself this question (it comes with a 50,000-dollar price tag): would Alex Ferguson have followed himself at Old Trafford? Oh, I very much doubt it.

When he was in situ, Fergie had the power and, being the kind of person I think he is, he would have enjoyed that power. He thrived on being all-seeing and all-conquering. Listen, you couldn’t change the toilet rolls in the Old Trafford dressing room without it being run by him..

Now we’re in a situation where someone else has come in and maybe he’s not having the same response. Fergie got an extra 50-60 per cent out of those players last season. Davie Moyes isn’t getting the same.

You would love to be a fly on the various walls of Old Trafford. What is the situation between Moyes and Ferguson right now, for instance? Well, I imagine they’ll be trying to avoid each other. Fergie can’t be seen to be chapping on the manager’s door and, if things aren’t all that good within the squad right now, certainly Billy McMoyes can’t be seen to be chapping on Ferguson’s door. That would be a sign of potential weakness.

So I’d imagine they would be avoiding one another rather than partaking of a glass of wine after every match. That’s the way they’d love it to be, with Man U rolling over the top of people every week. And the fact is that the team will have to return to those ways before Davie Moyes can be considered a success and any kind of worthy successor to Alex Ferguson.

So Davie Moyes is desperately looking for heroes to pull himself out of the soft stuff. But first, as the M People song indicates, he must search for the hero inside himself - if one, other than Billy McNeill, exists.

　

Tribute to a true legend: Eusebio - By Jim Black

TRIBUTE TO A TRUE LEGEND

(First published in the Scottish Daily Mail) 

BY JIM BLACK

HE was born Eusebio da Silva Ferreira into poverty in the Portuguese colony of Mozambique on January 25 1942.

To the rest of the world he was simply Eusebio - aka The Black Panther and the Black Pearl.

The latter nickname fitted him best, for he was a sparkling gem in a generation encrusted with great players.

Unquestionably one of the greatest of them all, Eusebio died yesterday at the age of 71 of heart failure.

He had been in ill-health for some time with heart and respiratory problems and his passing was not entirely unexpected. But the news that the beautiful game had lost one of its most talented entertainers came as a shock all the same.

But while the football world mourns the passing of one of the sport’s true gentlemen it will also take time to reflect on the skills and remarkable achievements of a man who whose ready smile and modest personality instantly endeared him to all who had the good fortune to encounter him.

I was not one of those fortunate enough to know Eusebio but I had the privilege to see him perform in the flesh, as it were, when Celtic were drawn to play Benfica in the European Cup in November 1969 on their way to a second final.

That was in the days before I became a fan with a typewriter and it was perhaps only my second visit to Celtic Park.

I had gone there from my home in Arbroath with a close pal and died-in-the-wool Celtic fan not to offer my support to the Hoops but simply to marvel at the skills of a player who 18 months earlier had thrilled millions of TV viewers in a classic final against Manchester United.

History records that the Red Devils beat The Eagles 4-1 in extra-time after Eusebio had the chance to snatch the winner in regulation play.

But my abiding memory of that May evening at Wembley was not of Eusebio’s missed opportunity but rather his graceful acknowledgement of Alex Stepney’s remarkable save when he stopped to applaud the goalkeeper in recognition of his accomplishment.

They say that it is sometimes best never to encounter your heroes up close and maybe there is some truth in that, for, regrettably - for whatever reason - the Eusebio who faced Celtic that evening at the age of still only 27 did not light up the stadium in his customary fashion.

Perhaps by then he had been hacked down once too often in his career by unscrupulous defenders hell bent on negating his threat by fair means or foul.

The Black Panther was still blessed with an electrifying burst of speed, wonderful technique and athleticism, but it turned out to be an occasion when dour defending won over God-given skills.

Celtic were simply devastating and Benfica were forced to withdraw Eusebio at the interval so as to switch to a defensive formation in an effort to contain their rampant rivals.

In the end, they settled for three goals, but with Eusebio sparking a shock revival in the return in Lisbon by scoring the opener, Celtic’s fate rested on Billy McNeill guessing correctly on the toss of a coin!

It later transpired that Jimmy Johnstone had tried to persuade Eusebio to sign for Celtic.

The thought of Eusebio gracing Scottish football’s stage in partnership with Jinky makes the hairs on the back of one’s head stand up even now.

For Eusebio later said in praise of the winger: “I am sure I would have scored many more goals with Jimmy supplying the crosses, because he was one of the best players in the world.”

Eusebio also formed a close friendship with another great Scot, the late Jim Baxter adding credence to the suggestion that the man voted the ninth best player of all time in a millennium poll liked a drink and knew how to enjoy himself away from the pitch!

But it is as a footballer player of rare genius that Eusebio will best be remembered for his many achievements in a 15 year career with Benfica, whom he joined in 1960 from Sporting de Lorrenco Marques, a feeder club for the Portuguese giants.

His many honours are too long to list individually here but among his achievements were 11 league titles, five Portuguese Cup triumphs, the European Cup in 1962, in addition to three other finals, European Player of the Year in 1965 and Europe’s Golden Boot winner in 1968 and 1973.

Eusebio also scored a staggering 679 goals - most with his ferocious right foot - in 678 official matches in a 22 year career, which included a spell in North America before a persistent knee injury forced his retirement. He is also Benfica’s all-time record scorer with 638 in 614 appearances.

He played for Portugal on 64 occasions, scoring 41 times, and helped his country to third place in the 1966 World Cup finals in England where they lost to the host nation in the semi-finals.

Eusebio, who began playing the game in his bare feet at the age of eight, was also top scorer in the tournament with nine goals, four of them in one game against North Korea

From his retirement until his death at his Lisbon home in the early hours of Sunday he was one of the football’s foremost ambassadors, praised worldwide for his sense of fair play and humbleness.

Last night as the legends of the game queued up to pay tribute to one of their own, the words of Eusebio’s Benfica and Portugal team-mate and close friend Antonio Simoes summed up the man’s brilliance, influence and phenomenal goal-scoring prowess.

“With Eusebio we could be European champions,” said Simoes “without him maybe we could win the league.”

It is an indication of the esteem in which Eusebio is held the Portuguese government has decreed three days of national mourning with flags flying at half mast.

As a further mark of respect Eusebio’s coffin was taken to Benfica’s Stadium of Light to allow his tens of thousands of fans to pay homage to “Africa’s first great footballer and the greatest ever.”

Apologies to Andy Murray: I was wrong about you...

By Bryan Cooney

MY sons claim I’m one of the inaugural members of the Grumpy Old Git Society. They may have a point.

Take Andy Murray. Some years ago, he began to find his way up my nose faster than any decongestant. I looked beyond that extraordinary promise and found too much Kevin the Teenager, to much foul-mouthed rebellion and, occasionally, too much exhibitionism.

I’ll never forget the night he brought unscheduled and unnecessary drama to the US Open. He was obviously feeling unwell but, instead of demanding a toilet break, he ran around New York’s Flushing Meadows, stopping only to spray the court with projectile vomit. He seemed almost satisfied with the perversity of it all.

There again, the mean streak that he often demonstrated in competition was also evident off court. Once, when he was lying on a treatment table in Paris, it’s alleged that he intercepted a text from a reporter on his physiotherapist’s mobile.

A man from The Times was inquiring about the player’s fitness ahead of Wimbledon. It’s claimed Murray took over texting duties, insisting that the injury might be enough to make him miss his date with the All England Club. Cue back-page disaster.

You suspect the mischievous streak remains, but the fact is Murray seems to have left much of the other nonsense behind him. And now that extraordinary promise, under the tutelage of Ivan Lendl (aka the Black Eyed Bully Boy) has developed into an awesome talent.

People, such as Murray’s boxer friend, Alex Arthur, used to tell me he had many fine qualities and that a great guy was bubbling under all that subversion. I was less sure. It looks as if I was comprehensively wrong.

I should have made allowances for his age, for the fact that he had negotiated the earlier horrors of the Dunblane school massacre, for the fact that he left home at a tender age to hone his ability in Spain, for the fact that his parents had separated. He had every credential to be a troublesome teenager.

This grumpy old git should have known far better. He has proved me comprehensively wrong. Today, Andy Murray stands out as not only a brilliant athlete but also as a thoroughly decent young man.

I trust his back problems are over and that 2014 becomes another inordinately good year for him.

HOW many people are required to decently report a football match? If you’re an executive of BT Sport or BBC Radio Scotland, the answer seems to be: as many as it takes.

The recent Scottish Premiership match between Inverness CT and Celtic became a master class in excess for the former organisation. No indications of prohibition here, lads. Not in the land of the burgeoning budgets.

Now, let’s see - there was a presenter, a commentator, a co-commentator, four analysts, who were strung out across the pitch like a distended midfield, and, of course, the obligatory young lady poised to interrogate the managers. That’s eight, without taking the camera crew into consideration.

BT Sport are not alone in this variety of indulgence, however. On New Year’s Day, Radio Scotland fielded a Tannadice team that could have doubled as a respectable five-a-side. Exempting again the technical guys, there was the indefatigable Richard Gordon, Billy Dodds, Willie Miller, Jim Spence and a commentator whose name invariably escapes me. It shouldn’t because he is the most convincing of the bunch.

They should be commended on their punctuality, however: the media gantry was posting “house full” notices at 1.45pm - 75 minutes before kick-off.

Mind you, maybe I’m guilty of unalloyed envy. There were times in my journalistic career when I could have done with assistance.. None more so, in fact, than in 1990 when the Daily Star asked me to cover the World Cup opener in Milan between the holders, Argentina, and Cameroon, otherwise known as the Indomitable Lions.

My sole mission was to compose a colour piece. The match report was designated to be written by a colleague, with a third man deputed to pen a quotes story at the end of the game.

Can you imagine the dismay in me when, nearing kick-off, the two seats beside me at the San Siro lay disturbingly empty ? Can you imagine the horror when they remained empty for the duration of a match that was wildly dramatic by any standards (The Lions roared, savaged the champions 1-0 and had two men sent off in the unlikely process)?

The office had neglected to inform me that my colleagues were still in Sardinia experiencing something of a drama themselves. One of them was locked in his hotel room, having succumbed to what is known as stage fright. The other claimed to be fully occupied trying vainly to woo him out.

I must admit to experiencing the odd ripple of fear myself that Friday night. I had to write three pieces and still meet preposterous deadlines. Come to think of it, that was an occasion when the budgets of BT Sport and Radio Scotland would have been an absolute blessing!

MY wife and I recently deserted the storm-battered coastline of Scotland and relocated to a fairly sheltered pocket of Glasgow. This has had a dramatic effect on our lives. Well, my life, anyway.

With the satellite dish no longer vulnerable to the worst excesses of the Atlantic, intermittent picture pixilation is no more and thus the appeal of the old flat screen has never been greater. Consequently, I’m watching far more football and enjoying it, too.

Then I discovered Michael Owen (sorry, folks, we’re back at BT Sport). Now I have met Owen before. No, that’s an exaggeration. I stood beside him in a queue for the bookies when I attended my first Cheltenham Festival in (I think) 1998.

It seemed as if. prior to the World Cup, he’d been given the responsibility of placing his Liverpool colleagues’ bets: his teenage hands were packed with £20 notes. But an unmistakeable glint in his eye informed you that he was coping rather well.

Now, there is such a thing as horses for courses. People should stick to things they do well. The first impression was that Owen is not a natural communicator. Unfortunately, he delivers his views in a rather flat and boring Mersey monotone.

But I must admit that the Owen schtick is beginning to grow on me. Forget the voice that rarely extends of hysteria, or any great excitement. Just listen to the valuable insights he gives on the game and the minds of the players.

Hey, this grumpy old git has become a fan.

IT appears football clubs in England, even those of a fairly humble denomination, have enough resources to rise above these recessionary times.

Take the case of Lyle Taylor’s recent arrival at Firhill from Sheffield United. Apparently, Taylor was on £2,750 a week. Thistle were keen, but when they were told about his wages, their ardour began to wane.

United were undismayed. They asked Thistle how much they could afford. The answer was £750. It’s claimed United agreed to underwrite the difference.

So, if money is almost an irrelevance in the third tier of English football, what about the Barclays Premier League? Those faithful to football will remember Sone Aluko, the erstwhile winger of Rangers and Aberdeen now pursuing a career at Premier Divison Hull City.

Aluko was recently offered a contract extension by Hull City. The Humberside club put £35,000 a week on the negotiating table. The response was negative. A couple of days later, the offer was increased to £40,000 a week. A two-and-a-half-year deal was signed immediately.