We here at UF are known for two things: (1) our features of sex scandals; and (2) our love of Liverpool or Arsenal (depending on which contributor you ask). So how do we feel about the upcoming Arsenal v. Liverpool treble (CL match on Wednesday, EPL match on Saturday, CL match next Tuesday)? The next week may very well tear us apart.
In preparation for the upcoming matches, I asked each of our Arsenal and Liverpool supporters 5 simple questions (those contributors who support neither club were not invited):
(1) Name one thing that you are willing to give up until the end of the EPL (suck it, Barclay's) season to have your club win all 3 matches
(2) Who is the most important player for your club over the 3 matches?
(3) Would you be willing to trade losses in the 2 Champions League matches for 1 league win?
(4) Why does your clib deserve to win?
(5) What are your predictions for the 3 matches?
First up, the Scousers of the bunch (The Fan's Attic; sven). Individual answers are not attributed in order to protect the guilty.
(1) "I would be willing to give up masturbation...and believe me that is a big sacrifice since I am in the doghouse big time right now."
"A reasonable resolution to the on-going joke that has become our ownership situation. I'd say love/personal life, but that's already back in the shitter."
(Look, Scousers have crappy romantic lives!)
(2) "Ryan Babel - when he plays well, we seem to do well and if he is dangerous from the wing it will help free up Torres."
"Torres would be the likely choice, but after the stinker Reina had at Old Trafford..."
(3) "Yes, so long as neither of those losses were embarassing."
"Nope."
(4) "LFC deserves to win the league match because we need this win more than Arsenal to ensure a CL appearance next season." (Ed. note: BOO-HOO!)
"We deserve to win in the CL because our European pedigree is second to none. In the PL? Um...'deserve' is such a strong word. To secure fourth and to finally get a result against a top domestic club away from Anfield."
(5) "League match 2-1 LFC, CL 3-2 aggregate for LFC."
"In any preview you might read about this match between now and kick-off they WILL include the words 'rotation' and 'owners'. In fact, it's the law." (Ed. note: Fuck, he's right - see response to #1).
Random LFC trash talk: "Fuck Everton, those useless cunts. Oh, about Arsenal? Um, not really." (Ed. note: See? We really love each other around here. We reserve our hate for Everton, Tottenham, ManUre and Chelski).
And now a word from the Gunners (umlaut75; Ian; spectator; precious roy).
(1) "Nothing, really. I think it's a hopeless goal. Now for 2 out of the 3 (League and 1 CL win), I'll attempt to curb my newly-reoccurring cigarette habit."
"Wine and cheese parties." (Ed. note: That's not going to help our street cred)
"I would give up my sneaking sense of pessimism about the way Arsenal's season has turned out. I figure that if Arsenal did manage to win all three games, I might become slightly more optimistic about the rest of the season - which would of course set me up for even more crushing emotions once the Gunners flame out for good."
"I'd give up answering the phone when my ex drunk dials me at 2am on a weekend." (Note to self: Only call precious roy on weekdays)
(2) "Almunia. He's looked pretty pedestrian in the goals he has given up the last couple of matches."
"Gallas. No one likes him, he has been playing like shit, and now he has to deal with Torres."
"Fabregas would be an obvious choice, but I'll go with Hleb. Ever since the ice cream incident in Meelan, he's practically disappeared."
"Cesc."
(3) "Before Saturday's second half, no, because it wouldn't have done any good. Now, well, not really."
"Well, given the apparent beating we are taking at the hands of Bolton, I would say advancing in the CL is looking better by the minute." (Ed. note: Where was your faith?)
"Arsenal aren't really in THAT great a danger of falling into fifth, are they?"
"Nope, but I would trade a league loss for 2 CL wins." (Ed. note: We Gunners are good at math)
(4) "There is no reason Arsenal deserves to win."
"We've played like shit for the past six weeks, so we probably don't."
"Because the worst run of play in years can't last forever, and we would be doing Liverpool a favor by finally killing off any chance that Rafa will be their manager next year."
"Because, Arsenal is a better TEAM. Liverpool right now is Torres and 10 guys who hopefully patch together enough quality to make whatever El Nino scores hold up." (Ed. note: Oh snap! He totally dissed Stevie G)
(5) "3 draws. Arsenal through on away goals."
"0-0, 0-0, 5-4 in penalties."
"Mutually assured destruction: Arsenal barely advances in the CL but are so depleted that they have no chance of getting past the next round. A boring draw in the league featuring a ton of players no one has ever heard of, meaning that Liverpool and Arsenal are guaranteed to finish third and fourth."
"The Gunners take 2 out of 3, but I'm not sure which 2."
Random Arsenal trash talk: "At least world leaders like the Emirates."
My own answers:
(1) I gave up giving stuff up during Lent.
(2) Gael Clichy, because I have a man-crush on him.
(3) No, I would rather advance in the CL and lose the league match, since Liverpool aren't catching us for fourth place anyway.
(4) We deserve to win because we play beautiful football, and Eric Cantona tells me that this makes all the difference.
(5) Arsenal through in the CL on aggregate, draw 1-1 in the EPL.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
A Blog Divided: The Arsenal v. Liverpool Treble
Friday, March 28, 2008
Liverpool vs. Everton
We had plans for a Rivalry essay set for this game on Sunday, but alas, they fell through this week like an England offside trap.
It will be back on course for next weekend's bloodbath with Liverpool and Arsenal, but in the meantime, I cobbled together a little something to set up the festivities.
An Everton fan laments his absence, especially when the one problem the Toffees have found in recent weeks has been a complete lack of heart in front of goal. First up, the one I was reminded of by the Guardian blog that happened in 2000/01. This game had it all: red cards, missed penalties, comebacks, and a last-gasp free kick winner from the old boot of Gary McAllister. I've been trying in vain to find video online -- if anyone can help, email me. This video also reminds me how much of a fucking beast Ian Rush was, while also bringing to mind just how desperately we need a winger who can cross the ball into the heart of the box. Fuck -- we'd be so much better-off if we had that. I, for one, cannot fucking wait.
> This is Duncan Ferguson.
I hate him, mainly because he was a tall, menacing striker [albeit injury-plagued] who haunted Liverpool [probably literally and figuratively, given his hooligan thug reputation] when he got the chance, which thankfully wasn't that often.
> I've lost count of the number of phenomenal derbies I've seen over the years, so I tried to find a few YouTube clips that capture the magic.
My absolute favourite was the 1991 FA Cup 5th Round replay, where the two sides battled to a 4-4 draw. Everton came from behind 4 times. Four times. Liverpool's Peter Beardsley [who later played for Everton] and John Barnes both scored a pair each, and Everton had answers from Graeme Sharp [who scored twice], and super-sub Tony Cottee's brace.
Another classic was the 1989 FA Cup Final [it seemed like the two sides met a lot in the FA Cup during the late-80s/early-90s], which LFC edged 3-2 not long after the Hillsborough disaster that year. It was a nervous, fractious, emotional time, but the grit and determination to bring home the Cup helped to ease the pain.
> It will be a touchy-feely encounter, as both sides are missing the fire from the belly of their midfield. Tim Cahill, the antipodean douchebag, is out with an aggravated metatarsal injury, and of course, Mascherano's missing because of his unmanageable mouth. [I'm hoping and praying he can successfully appeal the extra two-game ban for misconduct]
> Oh, and LFC 2, Everton 0.
Friday, March 21, 2008
UF's Rivalries Series: Liverpool vs. Manchester United
As anyone who follows the EPL will already know, there are several potentially epic matches coming up in the next few weeks between title contenders and lifelong rivals.
In light of this, we here at UF decided to reach out to some longtime fans of the big clubs, asking them to explain what these rivalries mean to them from their perspective.
Being the cheeky bugger I am, I decided to take this one and run with it, because let's face it, we can't let Sir Alex Ferguson and co get away without a retort. Hit the jump for my vitriol.
Growing up, I was jealous of the classmates who ended up getting into Oxford and Cambridge, something my father always hoped I would do. While they were reading history and classics, I was embarking on a move to the United States, where I’d set up my life and settle down, something that my old friends always derided and looked down upon. I became the joke, the kid who tossed away that privileged life in search of something else, and it took a long time to shake that moniker. I guess now, in footballing terms, Liverpool has become the butt of the joke. In my infancy, Liverpool were busy accumulating Viking-esque stockpiles of gold and silverware, trophies in all major competitions, making a true dynasty. It was never pretty, but they got the job done. As I grew up and the Premier League was born, we reached our twilight, and since then, we’ve got relatively little to show for the last 17 years of trying. In that time, we’ve won domestic trophies here and there, and found success in Europe, but the Big Kahuna has continued to elude us for two-thirds of my life, the one that we used to find ourselves winning almost automatically. Over time, our mystique has dwindled, the days of Dalglish, Shankly, Keegan, Souness, Beardsley, Barnes, Rush, Hughes, Hansen and Clemence are long behind us. We have new talismans now, but it’s hard to argue that we’re still as competitive and successful as we once were. Over the last decade, we’ve shrunk considerably, resigned to fighting for table scraps from the new English elite, Manchester United. We still have the all-time records over our rival 30 miles away, but we’re always craning our necks upwards to catch a glimpse of them running away with things, and the growing jealousy of the mid-90s has blossomed into full-on hatred in the 2000s. I hate Manchester United. I hate what they’ve become, everything from their harmonious owner-manager relationship [jealous of that, of course, thanks to our current Hicks & Gillett vs. Benitez mess] to their Portuguese wunderkind [we have our own Spanish genius, but he’s playing catch-up] and his psychic connection with strikers Rooney and Tevez. I hate that they’ve replaced us as the dominant English force, always competitive for the league while we battle and gnash to secure that final Champions League spot each and every Spring. I hate that they waltz into Anfield and always get results, stealing wins home and away and making us look toothless. I hate John O’Shea, I hate Alan Smith, I hate the bit players in this rivalry. I hate that they score so freely. I hate that Sir Alex Ferguson, a whinger and moaner of the highest order, is still manning the helm from the sidelines, keeping his team happy and content while mine bickers to anyone who will listen. My hatred is not relegated to the current era. Pick a villain: Brian McClair in the FA Cup, Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s godlike strike rate in the late-90s, Eric Cantona, a player that we had first dibs on according to Graeme Souness’s legend. The efficient and ugly, homegrown back-four of Steve Bruce, Gary Pallister, Denis Irwin and a young Gary Neville. Peter Schmeichel, the prototype for arrogant goalkeepers, David Beckham’s best years, Fabien Barthez, Norman Whiteside. Roy Keane. Of course, I still cling to any pyrrhic victories we’ve accumulated since our last League title in 1990. The game I've always clung to happened in 1994, and saw Man United jump out to a 3-0 halftime lead in front of a stunned Kop end. In fact, it was 3-0 within 24 minutes. Steve Bruce lumbered the first in, Ryan Giggs had a ridiculous chip after breaking the offside trap to make it 2-0, and then Denis Irwin curled in a cracking free kick to make the lead 3. It took two second-half goals from a restless Nigel Clough, the second as improbable and cheeky as the first, and then that equalizer. Man, that equalizer was something else. Neil Ruddock, a rather portly, average defender drafted in from Spurs the season before, rose above the masses on an out-swinging cross from the left and thudded the ball deep into the net, hurting his forehead in the process. I’ll never forget seeing him stagger away from the box having scored the goal, clutching his head while a spritely Jamie Redknapp jumped all over his broad shoulders. By then, of course, the sea change was complete, and we were always playing second fiddle. The days of confidence and pomp were long gone, lost in the 80s and Craig Johnston’s greasy jheri curls, replaced by caution, uncertainty, and a massive, almost unmanageable, inferiority complex. We had to be content with 1-0 cup wins against their second stringers [Fergie was undoubtedly the pioneer of playing reserves in the trophies they didn’t care about, something that spoke volumes of their arrogance] or sneaking scrappy, dull draws wherever we could. I’ll never forget the Man Utd/Sheffield Wednesday game in 1993, where Fergie seemingly bartered for nine minutes of injury time that saw Steve Bruce score twice and Sheffield Wednesday go home with nothing instead of a well-earned 1-0 win. The jealousy extends far beyond the confines of Anfield and Old Trafford, two grounds that used to share a working-class charm until they unveiled fresh stadium plans and a modernity that we have yet to match. Their seating capacity swelled while ours seems stuck in the relative Stone Age. For all the noise we make at the Kop End, Man United still has 30,000 more attending their games each week, and the Glazer family rakes in the profits while spending more than enough to keep them atop the league. I rarely go to Manchester, just because it’s never the sort of place I felt comfortable. They brew Boddington’s, a beer that’s popularized around the world and back, and we brew Cain’s, a gorgeous bitter that still seems sad, tiny and provincial by comparison. Our city struggled with the dwindling of the dock business that made us powerful beyond compare at one point, while Manchester thrived with new business, urban expansion, and renovation at every turn. It’s hard not to feel jealous, but then again, it’s harder still not to feel hate. Every empire has its turn in the sun, and we were the undisputed Kings of England back before I was born and while I was still too young to enjoy it. Instead, I had to be content with UEFA Cup heroics, the 5-4 win against laves in 2001, Mark Walters rescuing us in ’92 against Auxerre, and then, of course, Steven Gerrard. He brought us back from a hopeless place in 2005 against the aging but resplendent AC Milan, and then once more in the FA Cup the following year against a punchy West Ham side. Let’s not forget his goal against Olympiakos right at the death of the Champions League group stage, a goal that stunned the nation and kept us in the competition before our fateful encounter with Maldini’s boys in the final. It says a lot about my team that we’re always looking for last-minute heroics to snatch a point or extra-time when all seems lost. I’d give my right arm to once again enjoy a position of power, one where goals are never far from being scored, and where we don’t have to scrap and pray for a moment of magic. Magic’s hard to build around, but Man United don’t have that problem. They can score on will, assert their authority and put a game out of reach after it’s only just begun. That’s what I’m most jealous of, and it’s an envy that hurts most of all. I dream about Sir Alex retiring and the team falling into disarray, but I suppose I must hope for that like I hope for stealing points from the Big 3 like some pauper in a Dickens novel nicking bread from the table while his rich bosses are looking the other way. We've never won a Premier League title, something that I get reminded of each and every fucking day. The jealousy for Manchester United will never subside, and nor will the hate. I hope upon hope that this Sunday, I get to witness the beginning of the sea change back in our direction.
The primary root of all hatred in my life is jealousy. I think the same could be said for almost anyone. A heady blend of envy and jealousy can spark the most irrational of hate in any of us, even in the most mild-mannered of people. A pithy comment here, an unexplained outburst there; over time, the hatred builds, growing to such an unmanageable size that it is there to stay.
UF's Rivalries Series: Manchester United vs. Liverpool
As anyone who follows the EPL will already know, there are several potentially epic matches coming up in the next few weeks between title contenders and lifelong rivals.
In light of this, we here at UF decided to reach out to some longtime fans of the big clubs, asking them to explain what these rivalries mean to them from their perspective.
For this one, we've enlisted Luke Dempsey, a lifelong Man Utd fan, to give us his side of the story. He wrote some tremendous pieces for the New Republic during the last World Cup, including an impassioned defense of Zinedine Zidane's headbutt. His first book, A SUPREMELY BAD IDEA, will be published by Bloomsbury in July 2008.
Luke, the floor is yours.
I am one of two brothers standing near the rear window of our living room. It’s about 9pm; the curtains are drawn against what our mum calls ‘the cold winter’s night,’ even though outside, spring is doing its British best to be a bit better than winter. My elder brother stands at an angle, half looking at the far wall; he’s fifteen, and his hormones are making him feel like a lumbering center back. I’ve done a decade on the planet, and still have all the energy of a child for whom nothing has ever really gone wrong. I’m a nippy little winger. We are listening to the radio, unable to really look at each other; the tension is too high. The transistor is tuned to BBC Radio 2, specifically, the soccer commentary. It’s an FA Cup semifinal replay, Liverpool vs. Manchester United; second half, still 0-0. The previous Saturday, United had traveled the 60 miles west to play Liverpool in the first semi-final, a game that had ended 2-2. Let us pause and remember: These were the days before ubiquitous sports on every TV channel. The best you could hope for back then was Match of the Day on Saturday evenings on BBC1, a show which deigned to air brief highlights of two games played at 3pm that previous afternoon. If you were lucky, you supported a top team and might see highlights in midweek, too, on a show called Sportsnight. But wall-to-wall live soccer? If only. At the time, Liverpool were the greatest club side in the world, having won what was then called the European Cup in 1977 and 1978 (they’d win again in 1981 and 1984). They were also top of the league in 1979, and about to win it yet again under the great, if walrus-like, Bill Paisley. (That was also the year Notts Forest won the European Cup, as they would do again a year later; English teams won the European Cup every year from 1977 to 1982, in fact, an astonishing run.) The Liverpool team in those days boasted the likes of Kenny Dalglish, and Graeme Souness; a plethora of bad perms; and, let’s be honest, borderline-crap tactics, based all-too-regularly around what was called the ‘alehouse ball,’ in which some twat like Emlyn Hughes (a man who called his kids Emma, and Lynn lest we forget), or later Alan Hansen, pumped the ball long for a big center forward to nod down into the path of an onrushing Jimmy Case or Alan Kennedy. Forget what you’ve been told – it was often awful to watch, but it won them a lot of stuff. At the time, by contrast, Manchester United were an even bigger club in terms of support; they still are; and they played exciting, if leaky-at-the-back attacking football. But since being the first English team to win the European Cup in 1968, a full nine years before Liverpool, they’d won very little else. In the early seventies, reeling from the loss of Busby and Charlton and Best, they’d even been relegated to Division Two (Chelsea would be similarly relegated in 1979). United had always preferred to lose 5-3 at home to West Brom than ever to actually win anything. So here we were, two desperate brothers, in love with a team in the shadow of the Scousers. Sure, we’d had the joy of 1977, the Queen’s Silver Jubilee year, and United’s 2-1 win over Liverpool at Wembley in the cup final; but soccer joy doesn’t last nearly long enough, and by the end of the seventies neither of us could argue about Liverpool’s dominance. The memories of street parties for the Queen and the winning goal spinning off Jimmy Greenhoff’s chest – it was the strangest goal ever to win a major tournament – well, those memories were fast receding. 1979 was something else altogether – Thatcher coming to power; there’s no such thing as society, she said, and then she went about proving it by dismantling it. But at the age of 10 I didn’t care either way; I was all about United; and that night in April, I was about to love Jimmy Greenhoff all over again. Dad wasn’t home. He worked for a roofing company, a company which always seemed to be on the verge of going out of business. That day he was driving back from Carlisle, where he’d spent all afternoon on a ladder trying to work out why a piece of cladding had been stuck to a roof upside down. The foreman had joked that his welder was from Australia, but on a wet Carlisle afternoon 100 feet up it hadn’t been all that funny. He was still two hours from home, and he’d have to listen to the United game in the car, without his sons. By the time he arrives in the Midlands, I could well be in bed; depends on what mood mom is in. At least he’d get to lie full length by the fire, next to his eldest boy, kick his shoes off, and take every shot with every United player, his feet jerking about every time the ball came ‘his’ way. This 44-year old man had been born in Sale Moor, Manchester, four miles from Old Trafford. He was one of 14 kids. One of his elder brothers, Michael, was the sports editor of the Daily Express, and wrote a weekly column in the United Review, the match-day program; we knew Uncle Mike counted Busby as a friend, but he never boasted about it. One of the younger brothers in the family, John, was the head of the Nursing Union, and would come to prominence as a vociferous anti-Thatcherite in the 1980s. John was also the only one of the 14 who supported Manchester City. He went to a game at Old Trafford precisely once, which was of course the only day Michael ever wrote a piece in United Review about the black sheep brother who laughingly loved City. Dad was the first of the Dempseys to move south, so we grew up in north Birmingham, a fact which plays into every fan’s prejudice that United supporters are from everywhere but Manchester. So when asked, I say I’m from there, because by blood I am, though I was the first grandchild who was not born close enough to hear ‘Glory, Glory, Man United’ wafting across the city every Saturday at 3. But blood? Mine runs red, and in any case, what would you have me be, a Villa fan? I have kids of my own, now. They were born in New York City, in a hospital on 68th and York, in the year United won the ‘European Cup’ for the second time. The last time we won that tournament was the year I was born, ’68. In 1999, perhaps our best player was Dwight Yorke. York(e) and 68: I believe in omens. And given what happened in Barcelona that fateful night, the sheer unbelievability of it, one of my daughter boasts a legal middle name of Solskjaer (the other we middle-named Cantona). But it’s not just what happened in the Nou Camp; Ole had knocked Liverpool out of the cup that year, too, a last minute winner into the Stretford End; what else could I name my daughter? (And Cantona... well, if you can show me a better finish than his four-minutes-from-the-end FA Cup Final blast against the Scousers in 1996 – he hit the ball when it was thigh-high and behind him and 20 yards out – go right ahead.) Her grandfather’s name was Vincent, but by the time United became a team that wins things, those seven letters were etched on a stone in the village of Stonnall. He died the year Gazza cried in Italy, and the last time Liverpool won the league. He took their luck with him, though he took a lot of other stuff, too. That Wednesday night in 1979, with about fifteen minutes to go, me and my brother could barely stand it anymore, so we did what we always did – got ourselves a ping pong ball and had a kick about in the living room. But as we played, we heard the crowd noise rise, and stopping to listen we heard as Jimmy Greenhoff headed the ball into the back of the net to put United one up. We made so much crazy noise I was put to bed. Dad and my brother watched the game without me later, though bro snuck up to tell me we were in the Cup Final again, third time in four years. The first time, in 1976, had ended in heartbreak with heavily-unfancied Southampton beating us 1-0. Then there was the 1977 Liverpool final, and its three goals in five minutes. The first featured Stuart Pearson shaming Ray Clemence at the near post to put us one up, running away and pumping his fist very pleasingly, a celebration I copied for years afterwards. Two minutes later Jimmy Case leveled with a great effort from just inside the box. Then the crazy goal off of Greenhoff’s tits, attributed to Lou Macari still, and we had beaten Liverpool at Wembley; more, we had prevented them doing the Treble (League, Cup, and European Cup) – only one team has ever done that in England (see under 1999). In 1979, having had Greenhoff knock Liverpool out that Wednesday night, we’d go to Wembley to face a strong Arsenal side, replete as it was with the great Liam Brady. We went two-nil down, had a crazy six minute spell late second half to draw level, then the phone rang, and my dad missed Alan Sunderland’s late, late winner. On the line was one of my dad’s workmates congratulating him for the comeback. Yes, Mr. Sunderland, you are. You are a fucking bastard indeed. Now, I actually love to watch Arsenal play. Against Milan in Italy recently they were astonishing, knocking the ball around like kids in a living room with a ping pong ball and a fast-approaching bedtime. Chelsea, of course, will go back to mid-table once the Russian money goes away – until then, they’ll buy loads of superstars, have no real team, and win the odd thing here and there without any United fans really caring either way. No, it’s Liverpool we continue to hate – we delighted in winning 1-0 at their place around Christmas last year, and getting the chance to sing, Feed the Scousers / Let them know it’s Christmas time We laugh our asses off when we bring to mind West Ham fans a few years ago singing, to the tune of “Donna e mobile,” We’ve got Di Canio / You’ve got our stereo. We love that in the last twenty years, apart from a bizarre night in Istanbul when AC Milan forgot to come out for the second half and handed Liverpool the 2005 Champions League, they’ve basically won squat. My loathing of them is only deepened now that I understand that the Liverpool I grew up watching were actually winning things for one reason only: the back pass. They thrived on solid ‘defensive units’ who spent 75 minutes of every game knocking it back to the keeper. Can’t do that anymore, and ever since backpasses were done away with in 1992, United has won the league nine times, including that first year of the new rule. No back pass, and this is what you get: Liverpool has come third five times and second once – that’s it. This year, who knows – they could end fourth, but then again they could end sixth. But the animosity is more than just about soccer. For a start, there’s the Manchester ship canal, that cunning cut Mancs built to siphon off some of the business Liverpool got from the roiling Atlantic. But it wasn’t just shipping that drove a wedge between the two towns; to my eye, the cities have different emotional registers. Manchester gave the world ‘What Difference Does it Make?’ and New Order and Joy Division (or, Warsaw, as they were originally called); dark, knowing music that was both witty and clear-eyed. Liverpool, on the other hand, gave the world Paul McCartney and Wings singing ‘Who’s That Knocking at the Door, Who’s That Ringing the Bell?’ His earlier combo, the name of which escapes me, were the greatest band ever, blah blah blah, but they were also horribly maudlin and sentimental more often than people realize (go read the words to ‘Let it Be’ then get back to me). Manchester is always thought of as a bit rougher, a bit more real, a place with a bit more edge. Consider the soccer fans: Liverpool’s ‘You’ll never walk alone’ is so saccharin as to be pretty much unbearable; United fans, in contrast, sing Park, Park, wherever you may be That’s a song in honor of the Korean Park, who plays for United – utterly bizarre as an encomium, but there it is. Compare, too, the recent minutes’ silence at Old Trafford to honor the lost lives in the Munich air crash, a silence which was perfectly observed inside the ground. Anyone who knows Manchester is hardly surprised. It’s a tough but fair place; the city comes first; you might hate United, but unlike Liverpool fans you don’t make fun of Mancunians who died in a plane crash. The only blot on that silence was the firecrackers let off outside the ground, and United and City fans alike don’t believe it was City fans who did it. It had to be Scousers. They probably thought it was funny. No, what was funny was Barnsley. I can imagine a conversation in June 2008 between two Man United fans; goes something like this: Being smart fans, they must have known that by the time Fabregas equalized with 10 minutes to go in that sixth home game, the domestic season was over. You can’t take 7 points at home from five and win the league, even if you’ve already played Chelsea and Arsenal. Further, Chelsea, Arsenal, and United each went to Anfield and got a result. All that was left was Brian Howard and the Champions League final. Because who knows, they’ll probably make it again. My brother has a phrase for all those little teams that show up at Old Trafford and play their hearts out, only to lose at home the following week to someone crap – he says they’re ‘cheating their fans.’ I hereby accuse this current Liverpool team of doing the same. Last week against Inter in Milan they looked brilliant; the week before against Barnsley they looked like Liverpool from the last two decades. But all those Scousers who can’t afford to travel to Italy must be pissed that they play so poorly in England, only to turn it on for the latter stages of the Champions League. Even though we loathe them, they are true and dedicated fans of their team, and trust me, if United only cared about Europe, there would be hell to pay in Sale and Stretford and all along the Warwick Road. (That said, United fans love Benitez, and we urge you to keep him as long as you can. Fat Spanish waiter, he’s just a fat, Spanish waiter.) And yet, and yet, of all the games I long to attend, United home to Liverpool in the league is the one. Recent years in the Premiership have been aces if you’re a United fan. Last year at Anfield we had Scholes sent off, yet up popped John O’Pie, as United fans unaffectionately call him, to smash home a late winner into the Kop end, and thereby pretty much win us the league. This year we nicked the corresponding fixture with a clever Tevez winner right before half time, and next Sunday comes the visit of Liverpool to Old Trafford. My brother being the proud owner of a bunch of season tickets at Old Trafford I’m making the trip, and I’m taking my kids. So next weekend I’ll be there, with my little Solskjaer and my little Cantona in tow. It’s their first visit to Old Trafford; I was about their age when I went to see United for the first time too. That day, the accelerator cable on my dad’s car snapped on the northbound M6 and, stuck in 4th gear, he somehow managed to cruise down the off ramp, do a Starsky and Hutch left turn, drop the car at a garage, and get us to the game via a Manchester bus with minutes to spare. I still remember the blissful shock of the green Old Trafford turf as we finally made it to our seats. We beat Birmingham City 1-0 on a Joe Jordan header, and the car was fixed by 5. Some things never leave you. Brian Howard in front of the Kop. Jimmy Greenhoff’s stooping header in April 1979, the winner off his tits two years earlier. The first time I heard ‘William, It Was Really Nothing.’ Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s goal in Barcelona. My dad’s face as the light at the bottom of the off ramp turned amber. ‘Hold on, boys,’ he said, ‘this one’s gonna be fun.’
IN PRAISE OF THE BREASTS OF THE GREAT JIMMY GREENHOFF
For me, it all comes down to Jimmy Greenhoff, and an April night in 1979. Wednesday April 4, to be precise, the place Stonnall, a little village 20 miles north of Birmingham.
And that’s why I’ll always agree with Alan Sunderland who, when he scored that 89th minute winner in 1979, wheeled away celebrating and mouthing ‘you fucking bastard.’
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In soccer conversations in New York I’m most often asked by Americans why I don’t hate Arsenal and Chelsea as much as I hate Liverpool. After all, Liverpool are a spent force, at least domestically, concentrating instead on winning a few knock-out games each year in the hopes of a cup or two. Aren’t the two London clubs the real threat to United’s dominance? Well, the problem is, neither team was much of a threat to us growing up, Alan ‘fucking bastard’ Sunderland notwithstanding. We grew up being told that Liverpool were the greatest team that ever played, when in fact they were stolid and fairly boring to watch, and that’s one of the reasons we hated them.
You eat dogs in your own country
But it could be worse you could be a fuckin’ Scouse
Eatin’ rats in your council house.
MU fan #1: What’s your best moment of the season?
MU fan #2: That’s a very tough one. We were fucking brilliant this year. I’m going to say, Rooney’s overhead kick that hit the bar in the Champions League final....
MU fan #1: Good one! It helps, of course, that Ronaldo smashed in the rebound off of Nani’s tiny cock....
MU fan #2: Of course. But an overhead kick? We’ll tell our grandkids.... So what’s your moment?
MU fan #1: You’re going to laugh, but it was Brian Howard.
MU fan #2: Really?
MU fan #1: Seriously, last kick of the game, in front of the teary-eyed Kop – they’re always crying about something those lot – and there he goes, burying it to knock the Scousers out of the cup. Not to mention he should have had a penalty seconds before. Perfect. And don’t forget they were 2-1 down right before halftime to Havant and Waterlooville in the previous round....
So it goes; as much as we love United, we also loathe, and fortunately can now laugh at, Liverpool. This was to be the season they won the league of course, but that’s because no one noticed they’re not that good at the back, rely too much on an overrated Steven Gerrard, and put Dirk Kuyt in the team most weeks. Torres is sometimes unstoppable, especially against poor teams, but against United at Anfield he didn’t show up; same story at home to Arsenal, even if he claims he was injured. But even United fans felt a bit sorry for staunch Anfieldites at the start of the season: in their first five games, they beat Derby 6-0 (well, duh), and drew every other game. Must have been like watching paint dry.
UF's Rivalries Series: Chelsea vs. Arsenal
As anyone who follows the EPL will already know, there are several potentially epic matches coming up in the next few weeks between title contenders and lifelong rivals.
In light of this, we here at UF decided to reach out to some longtime fans of the big clubs, asking them to explain what these rivalries mean to them from their perspective.
The series kicks off today with the Chelsea/Arsenal rivalry explained from the blue side of town, and with two essays detailing the Liverpool/Manchester United relationship.
Let the record show that the Arsenal fan for today was unable to participate at short notice, so their side of the story will remain quiet for now. If any serious Gooners fans care to retort, drop us an email to the address in the sidebar to the right, and we'll correct this asap.
In the meantime, I'll let the Chelsea fan, Q aka Autoglass, have the floor.
He grew up in Rochester, NY and had season tickets to the Rochester Lancers. He went to school in Boston, lived in DC, and ended up in New York City, spending ten years in Kinsale and George Keeley's watching the footie with the likes of RZM, Hirshey, Bigus and the lot. Last year he moved to California with the Beckhams.
15 years ago, he became a Blue (that story is for another time), and he enjoys sunsets, long strolls on the beach, curling up by the fire, and watching Bigus' Norwich City as they battle for avoid relegation to League One.
After the jump, his perspective.
We could discuss Arsenal's "20 beautiful, breathtaking 6-yard passes and a boot over the bar." style. I could spend 1000 words on Arsene Wenger alone. About his scorn for the very English game that has provided him with his rare real successes. About the fact that various managers in England have their disputes with individual managers, but that every single one of them hate that arrogant gallic pedophile at the Emirates. But I'm not going to do that. That is for my endless email flame wars with my mates. I thought I'd dig a little more deeply into why "the" Arsenal are so loathsome (aside from the fact that they insist on calling themselves "the" Arsenal.). Some self-examination, if you will. Arsenal are going through their annual late winter run of poor form. Four straight League draws to the likes of St. Mary's Convent for Learning Disabled Dwarfs. This happens every year. Yet, these results are hardly noted in the football world. While the press and the great mass of supporters natter on and on about other sides' stumbles, Arsenal get a pass. Yet, another year goes by and Arsenal, somewhat quietly, crash out of every competition and add nothing to their trophy cabinet and meanwhile, crisis ensues at Liverpool, or Chelsea, or Spurs, or even United. "We aren't winning enough! What will we do?" But we hear no gnashing of teeth from the Emirates. Gooners may be sad for a bit when they crash out of three competitions in a fortnight yet again, but they quickly bounce back to their arrogant selves. This is because Arsenal are not about winning. This is because, at the Emirates, if Arsenal aren't winning, it's the game's problem. If Arsenal do not win something, it is because that competition (most notably an English competition) does not recognize and reward beautiful football. It cannot be Arsenal's problem. Let me explain. I'm a Yank. I live in the States. I've been supporting Chelsea for 20 years (the why of that is another posting). In my time, I've noticed that a certain kind of Yank becomes an Arsenal supporter. Metrosexual media types. Urbane attorneys. Artistic poseurs. Types who make a statement about themselves with every choice that they make. They select a fashionable side who have been somewhat successful but who reflect their own personal style, their refined tastes, their inflated self image. A side that says something about them. They seek to support a side who do things "better" than everyone else, a team who plays the game the "beautiful" way. These are people who listen to obscure jazz and are happiest when discussing an artist of whom you've never heard. These types don't love football as the game is actually played. The game as actually played is physical. It requires grit and steel. It's tactical. Success requires overcoming attrition and hard tackles and opponents who take your measure, look you in the eye, dig deep and find the strength and discipline to keep to a plan and beat you. In real football, the best side does not always win. But the sides that win over time are sides of character, steel, heart, and courage. Sides that play the way necessary to win a given match. Sides that don't place their own self regard, and an extra step-over, above a result. Arsenal and their supporters have no time for this. They count passes. They sing of the poetry of movement and flow. They want young, callow players who will "express" themselves on the pitch. They glory in possession and having the run of play. They are different, you see. You, the Chelsea or Liverpool supporter, are but an ignoramus. Sad, really, that you do not understand how beautiful football can be. Much like you could never possibly understand the sublime music of Warne Marsh. So, Arsenal go to Wigan or some such. Wigan play defensively. They know they will lose if they play Arsenal's preferred style. They don't give a toss if Wenger finds them to be negative. The game progresses. Arsenal are the better side. But Wigan's pitch is not perfect, and the Wigan players tackle aggressively. As the match progresses, the Wigan players (who, of course, hate Arsenal) dig deeper with each passing minute. Wigan have the gall to deny Arsenal space for their brilliance. Perhaps a leg is broken (sorry, I couldn't resist). When the smoke clears, one of two things happens. If Arsenal prevail, Arsene Wenger and the London media (who provide him with daily reach-arounds) glory in Arsenal's style and quality. Arsene will be sure to point out that he "rescued" his boys from obscurity and paid little for their services. The Yank support will turn off the telly and will put on some complicated jazz, pour a glass of Montrachet, and smugly congratulate themselves that, sometimes, style and fashion and a certain class of creativity are proven to be better than common sweat and toil. Much like how it is down at work: the cream always rises. If Arsenal are held, Arsene will complain about the pitch, or the negative Wigan tactics, the officials, or the fact that everyone wants to "kick" Arsenal. He'll never concede to being beaten or held. Arsenal are never beaten, nor are they every truly matched. If Wigan held Arsenal, then this is evidence of an imperfect sport. Such a result could not possibly bother us. Meanwhile, our Yank Gooner turns off the telly, briefly curses what an ugly match it was, wonders if football is too "base" for him, and perhaps doesn't tune in again for a match until he reads of Arsenal returning to form. Arsenal will crash out of the Prem and the Champions League in the coming weeks. This will be their third successive season winning nothing. But be patient with your Gooner friends, they are watching a different game than you. A game of flow and beauty. A game that you could not possibly understand. Let them natter on for a while. Then tell them that Warne Marsh sucked.
First, I fucking hate Arsenal. I could, and have, gone on a tear ripping these prancing, preening, Euro-hairgel-jobs and their arrogant manager. I could point out the fact that they shrink from any sort of physical play like a bunch of schoolgirls alarmed that one could actually get hurt in gym class.
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