Might there be a Lazarus-style comeback at Man Utd?

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!”

HAIL CESAR: A TRUE ICON

BY JIM BLACK

MAYBE it was the realisation that there won’t be many more such evenings. Most likely it was being in the presence of the recipient of the tribute dinner.

Whatever the reason for the lump in my throat, I found being in the company of so many football icons an almost overwhelming experience.

What was this, the aging cynic with a rapidly developing dislike of so many of the modern trends in our national game feeling emotional? Surely not!

But, yes, there I was surrounded by an Aladdin’s Cave of personalities from the past and it felt like a nostalgic trip down memory lane, one that I wanted to continue unabated.

BertieAuld, Tommy Gemmell, Jim Craig, John Clark, Kenny Dalglish, Danny McGrain, David Hay, Peter Latchford, Pat Stanton, Pat Bonner, Billy Stark, FrankMcGarvey, Peter Grant, Murdo MacLeod, Charlie Nicholas, Neil Lennon et al.

The list of celebrities gathered at the Glasgow hotel hosting the event is too long to list here. Suffice to say that everywhere you turned there was a famous face smiling back.

I hadn’t realised until then that all of them to a man were prepared to acknowledge me, not with a grunt at the memory of a headline accompanying my by line that may have caused offence but with a warm handshake that said any past differences were dead and long buried.

And when Kenny Dalglish made his way through the throng of tables to offer his hand to Rodger Baillie and me, in turn, I was “pure made up,” as they say in Glasgow.

It was as if the King had stepped down from his throne to greet his subjects!

Suddenly my faith in footballers and the game that has been a large part of my life since I wore short trousers was largely restored.

There were nearly 800 guests in total but one man stood out above the rest, the person we had gathered together to honour: Billy McNeill – the most iconic of them all.

It was on a warm May evening in Lisbon in 1967 that Billy’s name was forever enshrined in Celtic folklore when he hoisted the European Cup above the heads of the Portuguese President and other political dignitaries after being forced to fight his way through a thronging mass of fans minus his team-mates to receive the trophy.

Now in his 70s, Big Billy, as he is affectionately known - not in recognition of his build but rather for his status in the game – still stands out in a crowd.

Eight of the Lisbon Lions survive following the passing of Ronnie Simpson, BobbyMurdoch and Jimmy Johnstone, but for as long as one of them remains standing a live link with a past age, when football seemed a much more entertaining spectacle and the world a slightly saner place, will endure.

When Derek McGregor, one of the Sun newspaper’s excellent team of football scribes and a valued colleague, called several weeks earlier to extend an invitation for me to attend as his guest I immediately replied in the affirmative before even consulting my diary.

In truth, had the date clashed with a previously arranged engagement I would still not have hesitated.

But I had not anticipated the sense of pure pleasure I would derive from an evening spent in the company of Derek and his other guests, the aforementioned Messrs Stanton, McGarvey and Latchford, John O’Neil, the former Dundee United, Hibs and Scotland midfielder, my ex Sun colleague, the venerable Rodger Baillie, and the glamorous Lawrie Anne Brown of Sky television.

Neither could I have anticipated the wave of nostalgia that would sweep over me as I watched film clips of Cesar’s greatest games in the Hoops, many of which I was present at and reported on.

But, of course, Billy has that effect on me. Having forged a close friendship with the greatest living Celt, I don’t mind admitting that I swell up with pride every time he puts an arm round me or publically pays me a compliment of which I am largely undeserving.

For years I ghost wrote his column in the Sun and we have shared many treasured moments, both socially and professionally.

Our friendship blossomed at the tail end of Billy’s highly distinguished playing career and grew over the subsequent years of his managerships at Clyde, Aberdeen and Celtic.

I was the first person outside his immediate family to learn the shattering news that he required major heart surgery.

I was also among the first non-family members to visit him as he made a remarkably swift recovery in the privacy of Glasgow’s Nuffield Hospital.

He was already back on his feet just days after going under the knife, with the proviso that he did not walk more than a few yards and avoided climbing stairs.

The medicos might as well have held their tongues, for Billy ignored both pieces of advice when he walked me to the front door before ascending the stairs back to his room.

That was a measure of his indomitable spirit and refusal to bow to adversity.

But what has struck me most about Billy over the years is his humility; his refusal to see himself as an icon.

I recall in particular a bleak November afternoon in 2003 when we sat in the front room of his Newton Mearns home, where so few of his many trophies, medals and various other momentos are on display.

We were in the final stages of completing his autobiography, Hail Cesar (He was a fan of the actor, Romero, not the Emperor, Julius), and Billy was pouring over parts of the manuscript.

I suddenly found myself staring at him almost with a sense of wonderment that here I was, his ghost writer, in the company of a man who had achieved immortality.

Gradually, Billy became aware of my stare and asked what was going through my mind.

“I’m just thinking how many thousands would give their eye teeth to swap places with me right now,” I replied.

“Listen,” said Billy “I’m no different from you or anyone else. I sleep, I eat, I worry and sometimes I even cry.”

“Aye,” I shot back. “But how many guys do you know and are friends with who’ve lifted the European Cup?”

He smiled at that point but not in a smug way, because humility is a quality Billy embraces better than most.

So, to that thankfully small band of Celtic fans who live purely in the present and who suggest that it’s time the club moved on from The Lions, I say this: Enjoy having them while you can and continue to honour them for what they did to establish your club on the world football stage.

Thanks for the invitation, Del. The hangover the following day that preceded the long and winding road back to Inverness was worth every moment of the discomfort.

And, please God I’m still around the next time a Lion roars.

Too many coaches speak with forked tongues

 BY ANDY RITCHIE

FOOTBALL is basically a simple game which has become overcomplicated by systems and formations, numbers that add up to 11, whether it’s 1-4-4-2, 1-4-2-1-3 or 1-4-3-3 - or in Craig Levein’s case when he was Scotland coach, 1-9-1!

I’m a great believer that it’s about good players, not weird and wonderful systems dreamed up by coaches.

What’s the first thing you hear managers say when they aren’t getting it right?  - “It’s not about systems, it’s about players.”

Damn right it is. But there’s so much political spin that you become dizzy trying to understand what the hell they’re talking about and that annoys me.

If you’ve got a good team it’s because you’ve got good players – round pegs in round holes.

But the game’s full of systems and statistics. For me the only statistic that matters is how much possession you had, what you created, and how many goals you scored.

Did we defend properly; did we get in front because we were strong? None of that seems to matter anymore and that bugs me no end.

It seems to be more about finding players to fit a certain system rather than ones who are fit for purpose to play football.

The game’s about controlling the ball and passing. But there’s a coaching manual full of catchphrases and systems that would baffle the average mind.

I get the impression that it has reached the stage when a lot of players think it’s more important to fit into a system rather than performing and producing for the team as a whole.

It’s a con. A manager will begin with a certain system and if it isn’t working he’ll change it at half-time and then if he introduces a substitute who happens to deliver a pass for the winning goal or scores himself, the manager will take all the credit for his “inspired” move.

But if the same substitute does nothing, he won’t even be mentioned. So, what’s it all about? The plan is either to confuse the public or keep them in jobs.

What we need is more non-conformists and someone like Kenny Shiels fits the bill.

I met Kenny recently at a social function and we chatted away for quite some time about his views on the game.

I got the impression that he has become less confrontational and no longer feels a need to fight the world.

I’ve heard it said that in life you learn more from your mistakes than you do from your successes and I think that might well be the case as far as Kenny is concerned.

It’s all about what happens on the pitch with your own club rather than trying to solve football’s problems. It seemed that when he was in charge at Kilmarnock Kenny was in the newspapers every week commenting on some aspect or other.

It was as if he felt a need to say what others were thinking and he might have been better advised to have kept his own council.

I think he has a natural talent as a coach and is an enthusiastic deep thinker about the game with a desire to bring young players through and develop their talents through good and bad because he sees something in them that he wants in his team.

He isn’t the type to chop and change constantly for the hell of it. He wants to mould youngsters instead of shuffling the pack and Inverness could do a lot worse than appoint him as successor to Terry Butcher.

Kenny brought success to Kilmarnock and won them the League Cup. They also played attractive football and were difficult to beat.

You certainly won’t find anyone more committed and I just hope he has learned that what happens to his own team is more important than trying to change the SFA’s mindset by having fights with faceless people.

I suspect that the media was using him as a mouthpiece when he should have been concentrating far more on what mattered to Kilmarnock.

And I think if he can stay clear of issues on the periphery and not feel that he is swimming against the tide, he’ll be a better manager for it.

We’ll only find out for sure if he has changed if he gets back into management, and if he does that at Inverness and he’s looking for a scout, I’m in the market for work.

Another Scotland friendly? Better off with Kevin's Grand Designs

　

By Andy Ritchie

SO here I am, positioned in front of the telly on Friday night, pen poised to write down anything of Hampden significance. My head is good to go, but what about my heart?

Well, let’s say there’s little response from it. It’s possibly somewhere else, certainly not in this dear green place. Just call me the reluctant scribe. I’m on Scotland blogging duty, but I don’t really want to be.

My country is involved in a friendly against the USA and, for all I care, they might as well be playing Brazil. And even then I’m not even sure that would float my boat.

Bob Geldof didn’t fancy Mondays. Well, I don’t fancy football friendlies on Fridays. Or on any other night of the week, for that matter. And, within minutes of the kick-off, my mind is wandering so far away from the National Stadium that they might have to send out a search party to find it.

So I’m blethering to my companions, including my ma, and I’m watching the game: then I’m watching and blethering. And, yes, I’m considering changing channels. Hey, I’ve actually thought of turning over to Children In Need a couple of times but, no, let’s be professional about this - I’m supposed to be working here. Man, though, it’s bloody hard to be professional.

Wait a minute: I’ve drawn a little bit of inspiration. I’ve noticed that one or two of the Scotland players are sporting beards. I must improve my maths, it’s far more than one or two: there’s Fletcher, Snodgrass, Conway, Hutton, Hanley…and, wait a minute, is that a five o’clock shadow beginning to fall over Charlie Mulgrew’s face? And, God save us, one of the substitutes, Wallace, is wearing another. It’s a veritable explosion of hair - made in Scotland.

Quite the little statistician, aren’t I? If I’m not careful, I’ll be upsides with Wee Pat Nevin before long. But, listen, this is a serious consideration: I can’t remember playing in a team with so much facial hair. Okay, you were allowed to grow beards if you wanted to during the Seventies, but they weren’t at their most popular in this particular era.

I mean, we tended to go big afro and then even bigger afros. I can’t remember many pop stars or film stars with beards. They were for old men and down and outs. Oh, and Bluto, of Popeye fame. Now, those were some whiskers!

That didn’t mean we were short of those delightful little eccentricities. Dear me no. We tended to go for sideburns in the flavour of Mungo Gerry - and were very much into what we called the Tom Selleck porno moustaches. But beards? No.

And actually, I must admit: a wee bit of hair on your face isn’t too shabby. Some suit it better than others. Not for me, though. I looked like that wee animal that used to pop up on breakfast television: Roland Rat.

But here I am counting beards when I should be analysing what’s going on with Scotland. Truth be told, there’s not much going on. We (Scotland) are on our way to a moral victory. We are set to keep the run going and so that’s three games without defeat under Gordon Strachan. They did us 5-1 last time, so 0-0 looks better.

But I like a sting in the tail. I prefer something to matter. Tonight, the football is ordinary, to say the least. The Americans look as if they are just shaping up for a wee runabout. And nothing, or indeed no-one, is demanding my attention, other than this new fixation with facial adornments. Hey, international football friendlies are a bit like eating Chinese food. You can eat a No 132 and, about 35 minutes later, you’re hungry again.

It’s just two teams on the park and naebody is really worrying about what happens out of the whole exercise, apart from maybe the managers.

They say the crowd is about 25,000. Well, they say there are fools born every day. Who would want to pay money on a Friday night to leave the comfort of their firesides and go and watch this?

To my mind, it’s just a money-making exercise for the SFA. What they should have done is let everyone in for nothing. Or play it behind closed doors. At this time of year, it’s like saying: would you like to buy a ticket for the dress rehearsal of a pantomime? Maybe you would. I wouldn’t.

There are times when I am pulled out of my boredom. Is that Flower of Scotland I hear being sung? If it is, it’s a pallid version, a subdued and almost embarrassed version. But you can’t blame those poor fans: it’s hard to get excited about nothing. Besides, they are probably asking themselves why they’d bothered to come in the first place.

If we must, let’s talk football. Fletcher is up front with Snodgrass. I’d have preferred to see Fletcher playing closer to a wee guy like Naismith. But it’s just about all right. You can’t say that anyone is doing his chances any harm.

Barry Bannon? I’ve never believed that those whose arses are close to the ground can make significant contributions when things become physical, but he’s doing all right, using the ball and playing to his strengths. In these matches, though, players understand that they’re going to get another half tick on the ball.

Then we have the right-footed Conway on the left wing. This tactic seems to be flavour of the month with managers and coaches. This Andros Townsend boy from Tottenham has started something.

Tonight, the best chance of the match comes from the right. It works its way across the box and Fletcher plays it on to Conway, who skews the ball past the post - with his right foot!

A thought occurs here: do we need to suffer this again on Tuesday night against Norway? Here, is there anything else on? Maybe like the final of the World Bowls? Better, still another enthralling version of Strictly Come Dancing?

But, hang about, my ma loves Grand Designs. Maybe she’ll insist on a wee bit of Kevin McCloud. And who am I to resist? Besides, there’s a man who disnae wear a beard!