football

They are Grimsby too.

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Mansplainer: this is ABOUT GTFC, mainly. But hoping all fans can identify, yeh?

Yeh this counts as indulgence. And maybe exorcism. The brain is bit dead and the stomach stewed and only some of this is due to a tiring week. Mostly, it’s about football.

I went from Grimsby to Bristol then Newport, to see the Mighty Mariners. It was a fabulous day and I walked the riverside flat, as the saying goes. The mudflats looked gooey and the gulls were at it: the Usk a ver-ry different river to the sparkling cutie-pie inland. I perambulated and ‘checked-out’ the linear mile or two, either side. Waterside apartments and oh – an eisteddfod march featuring a zillion schoolkids – complete with ‘Yma o hyd’. (Go look it up). Three rather splendid and restful hours pre-game; all bridges and coffees and looking.

Town are a strongish side in the division. I know this via mates and coz I have *actually been* to about 8 games in the last X months. They should have won through the League Two play-offs last season… but no. Good vibe around the club, though, with what look like astute buys or loans to compensate for the loss of McEachran and Kabia. Too many draws in the opening phase but deservedly third in the table as I park up (on the kerb, like everyone else) along Caerleon Road, a sensible walk from the ground.

A confession: not been to Rodney Parade before. Like most of us in Wales – yes I live there, out West – it’s always been in the consciousness as a likeably, unpretentiously or homely host for the 42 iterations of Newport RFC, with or without dragons or Gwent. I do a circuit a) to find the away end and b) to ‘see’. It’s smallish and boxy and newish (coz trimmed or changed).

Rodney Parade now sits in amongst exactly the kind of mid-range(? Hopefully no offence?) apartments you might expect to see in any ‘revitalised’ urban riverside. Many of these front the river, with its pleasingly wide walkway, its gulls, its view into the city. I’m guessing that previously the ground nestled in amongst traditional working-class housing… and was therefore a ‘real part of the community’ but these are dangerously lazy assumptions (and it *may still be* a real part, etc etc) so let’s not go there. Except to say that obviously this area has changed – has developed or been developed.

It’s only when you’re in the ground that you see that neither end is covered. Not here to undermine or denigrate Newport but this does suggest ‘smallish club’ – fact. But it is what it is and yesterday it looked and was great, in powerful sunshine. Smart-looking playing surface, ideal playing conditions. We Town fans were split between one open end and an adjacent section between the corner flag and about halfway. (Did strike me that if we’d all crammed into one of those spaces, any impact we might have had would surely have been maximised, but hey-ho; lovely day, two sections available, crack on).

Town are kicking away from us, meaning we’ll see a thrilling hatful of goals later, yes? We start.

The pitch has been watered, to the extent that there is notable spray every time Maldini or McJannet stroke the ball imperiously sideways, to ‘draw County in’. (It’s nearly alarming: surely over-watered? Please god no interceptions!) We look better than them from the off – contentiously, I still think we are – but *real chances* are hard to come by, largely because the killer or potentially threatening passes are hurried, or butchered. This will be the theme for the day.

I went to the last home match at Blundell Park, versus Crawley, and was encouraged by the performances of two young lads in particular – both new to the club. Iwan Morgan is an athletic striker from Wales, with real commitment and movement. Fin Cartwright is a tall, slim, intelligent midfielder, with that proverbial cultured left foot. They both looked to have real potential, that day.

Zoom forward a week and they are both disappointing. Peripheral and in Cartwright’s case, slightly surprisingly wasteful. (He’s good enough to pick a pass and open things up: even when space was available he failed to do it. Uncharacteristically, he looked a bit nervy and early when a half-decent chance came his way). Interestingly – or not – Morgan looked keen to point out to someone in our crowd(?) that he was carrying a knock, when subbed. Think this was much more about his real disappointment than anything performative. Looks a good character, wanted to make something happen; was visibly thrilled to rifle in a pen, his first goal for Town, last week.

The Newport game doesn’t change my view of these lads as good quality players who may well make important contributions for the club. Both will and should be disappointed with their performances in what was ultimately a horrible, horrible defeat. But by no means was the defeat their fault. Morgan will feel he should have scored when he slid in but bundled wide, in the first half. He should have. Town deserved to be ahead at that point; there was that strong feeling that we would then go on to win well. The moment was lost, Newport threatened themselves, via their lad with pace, right-of-centre. Nil-nil at half-time, so some tension, but Town unquestionably the better.

It’s kinda hilarious that we sportspeeps all think we know better than the professionals – particularly the coaches. A gang of us spent much of last night (Saturday, keep up) dismembering Thomas Tuchel. We certainly know better than him!

(I actually work as a coach but this probably makes no odds, I know that. I’m talking relentless cobblers, like the rest of you. It makes the world go round, eh?!?)

Vernam is the Grimsby Town winger. Right-footed, plays on the left, in the Modern Way. Seems like a lovely, bright man; very coachable, I would imagine. If it’s tight, he will generally keep possession and drop it back into the full-back or midfielder. With space, he will run at the defender. Nothing wrong with his awareness or what we might call his playing intelligence. He’s listened: he knows. The trouble is, for a damagingly significant period of time, he’s been unable (mostly) to execute. Cuts in, gets the yard, and the shot is weak and/or wide. Crosses or higher-tariff passes don’t get there. Can actually strike a dead ball well – corners are often goodish – but had a poor penalty easily saved last week.

All things are complex so it’s maybe too dumb to simply call this a confidence issue… but it’s part of the unfortunate package. Execution of Important Moments has been too mediocre for too long. That recent penalty felt emblematic: in there at perfectly saveable height and within comfortable reach of the dive.

So some of us have been shouting. Even those of us who note the lack of alternative *outright wingers* in the squad. For many of us, Vernam is unselectable on this form. We understand that part of management is the support and revitalisation of individuals not at their best. Accepted. But there are brutal truths. And there are also alternative patterns. Play a flying wing-back (we have candidates for that) and no winger? I wonder if the coach is looking at that. He will know we need to hurt the opposition, to make more clear opportunities, more frequently than we are. His eyes as well as his data must surely be telling him that?

David Artell is the Grimsby Town manager. Animated on the touchline – sometimes bullishly and inappropriately so – but sharp, thoughtful and strategic. Often pro-active and generally excellent with tweaks and substitutions. (He was right to remove the two youngsters, early doors, yesterday). He’s known to be a statman – something I have reservations about – but it’s working pretty well for him. The club and the squad are in a good place in most respects, and the playing staff seem to have been gathered with care and intelligence. (Whatever happens, this feels like a strongish squad for this division. I have no doubt that those within the club are powerfully focused on a promotion: they *probably have* both the quality and the necessary depth).

*Probably* because yesterday was an awful defeat. Defensively, Grimsby are generally solid, with the Harvey/McJannet/Acurri/Sweeney combo typically assured and physically durable (if not heroic!) in the way that League Two success demands. But because we didn’t score in a first period that we kinda quietly dominated, and because errors happen, the day went bad on us. One cruel error and then a corner sloppily defended and we’re two-down. Unthinkable but we all know this is football. The locals in dreamland and good luck to them. Our lot completely gutted. A late goal – conceded badly by their former Town keeper – and a hopeful surge before we wander out, a bit dazed, into the Gwent sunshine. In my case, to boot to Pembrokeshire. (So not all bad, then).

Bigger pictures, as I yomp to the car. And now.

About 400 Town fans made the trip. Those on the coach left Grimsby at 7.15am and arrived at 1pm. All ages – same as everywhere. Overwhelmingly fabulous, generous, hearty people looking to support their club – same as everywhere. There was one lad (about 30; glasses) taunting the opposition keeper with endlessly foul ‘banter’ but everybody else would be great company wherever you put them in the stadium. Lots of Proper Humour. Lots of love for the town and the game.

The Mariners staff and players were uniformly brilliant and generous as they walked into the ground – I happened to be there. Selfies galore, selflessly and charmingly given. And notable that Green – the captain and the best player – leads applauds, thanks and apologies to the fans at the excruciatingly bitter end. Does that every week. He gets it – gets the connection and the meaning of all this. When he badly over-hit a late cross, Green’s cruel, crumpled angst registered with all of us; he fell into a gut-wrenched stoop, like the Town Posse in the stands; bawling out our hurt. I am critical of footballer’s dishonesty (and Town are guilty, in my view, of flopping and falling under contact) but Artell and co are palpably conscious of their role in mirroring the love, planting the flag. They are Grimsby too.

To begin… at the ending.

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Oof. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Not out on pens. Not tonight.

Most of Wales was saving up the hwyl, or the Ultra-hwyl for next week – for The Big One. But no. Bosnia and Herzegovina did that stealth-bomb-victory thing; firstly creeping into the game, then nicking it, as two Welsh players – Johnson and Williams – had radar malfunctions over their spot-kicks.

Johnson had been anonymous all night, and this always makes me think that a player not on his game just shouldn’t take a penalty. Know many will either disagree, or say that top pro’s can switch that bad energy off and stroke the ball home, even in that prodigious moment. Not sure I agree. If I’m the gaffer I take charge and look deep into the eyes of my players. I take it out of their hands (or yaknow, feet). If they either seem tremulous or they’ve played like a donkey, they don’t take the pen.

Not that Johnson played *really poorly*: he was just mediocre. As was Dan James – who is mediocre – until that extraordinary moment where he latched on to a ball beyond the last man (as per his entire career) but then took it spookily and magnificently early and smashed it past the Bosnian keeper. As absolutely not per… but truly gloriously.

O-kaay, the keeper was leaden-footed, for sure, but again we might credit the forward for striking (as it were) on the up and, if we were cruelly-inclined, against the grain of pret-ty overwhelming evidence. It was a brilliant, brilliant goal, from a genuinely mediocre player, who despite what you heard from the painfully myopic commentary team, had been his usual wasteful, sloppy, kick-ball-flytastic self for most of the first period. (But hey – ain’t life wonderful?)

The visitors had predictably adopted the ‘take no prisoners’ approach. Equally as predictably, James and Wilson were both guilty of exaggerating contacts – something the referee seemed notably unimpressed by.

The fella’s probably been reading my socials. Unpopular opinion number eight zillion: the ref had a largely decent game, and seemed to read those two players particularly well. Meaning his homework has probably included watching a good deal of the Prem or Championship over recent years. The crowd, of course, mostly bayed their disapproval at his appalling bias.

Wales started well, without creating. Ampadu and Wilson looked like players but Bellamy’s side again lacked bite or brilliance in and around the box… until James’s stunning intervention. Later, when the game began to drift from them, Harris, Cullen and Thomas came on to provide legs/energy/threat. Only the latter succeeded. Cullen committed one particularly bad foul then jogged around avoiding the game. (I think he has done that a little, for Wales). Harris had only a couple of meaningful interjections. Thomas, playing wide right then cutting-in to curl crosses or slide passes to the edge of the box, did well – was probably the home team’s best player in the last forty minutes – but there was no fox-in-the-box or thrillingly out-of-the-blue James-like cannon from outside of it. It had ‘one goal is not enough’ written all over it.

Bosnia were set to contain for as long as… and could do that. On the basis that one goal conceded left them well in the contest. Rivetingly, their number ten gave one of the worst or weakest exhibitions of forward play you are ever likely to see: he could have won the damn thing, before overtime, but fell into almost comical (but obviously tragic) serial-fluffing. (Later he was gifted their first penalty, which of course he missed). But they were in the game – from about the hour mark, they were in the game.

Dzeko, almost criminally, given who he is/what he does, squeezed in a header to equalise and then it was pens. No real argument. In the way of these things – in tournament football, I mean – Bosnia had opened out just a little and looked at least as likely to score as Wales did, as the match huffed and hustled to its cruel-joyful destiny.

There had to be a denouement and there was. But let’s deep-dive into sacrilege before we face-plant into it. Take the characteristically tremendous crowd out of this (as if you could, or would!) and maybe the event would’ve seemed kinda tepid, despite the exfoliating drama? In the sense that the fayre was mid-quality, at best. (We should mention in passing here that the visiting fans were a blast, right?) but the wider, erm sandblasting truth might be that Wales have two really good players – Wilson and Ampadu – and Bosnia had one – the superannuated Dzeko – and he was substituted, knackered, for extra-time.

Wales thought they would be roaring to glory or doom against the might of Italia. They’re not: they’re out.

Universe Podcast revisited: United City.

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On a whim – whilst out walking, acksherly – decided to throw out a podcast. Some will know I’ve done this occasionally, over many years. Have been known to confess that I never listen to podcasts myself… but aware others do, so hope this may be of interest.

Foolishly but characteristically decided to allow myself no notes or prep… then talk United City. So have and it’s here. 20-odd minutes. By all means bawl from the sidelines.

Pic is from The Guardian.

On Carrick (& Woodgate): delighted that (dare we say it?) cultured former players got off to a flyer, here. And that United looked a whole lot more like an MU side should look.

On Dorgu: think the fella’s pretty mediocre – or has been – but he had a great day, today.

On Mainoo: has to play – had to play under Amorim.

On Amorim: badly let down by the players be he didn’t & couldn’t *effect change*.

On Pep: a kind of #coachingfascist?

Have a listen and feel free to come over all opinionated.

Amorim.

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‘Emotional’ in what turns out to have been a critical meet with Jason Wilcox. Possibly intransigent re- the structure and playing style of his side. Bit lost, too often, in the dugout – looking rather concerningly downbeat; exhibiting poor or poorly-disguised body language.

These are markers in the demise, or strands in the argument against him. But surely the paucity of the *actual playing*, together with the worst-ever stats around results-over-time are the clinchers? Real football people understand that teams can play well without getting results but fans, both home and away would probably say United have been dogshit for an age. (Since before Amorim, to be fair).

Levels of performance, as a team, as individuals, have been shockingly, almost fascinatingly low. The widely-disliked Fernandes, whose own form has been patchy, has been arguably the only red that high-achieving sides might remotely covet. Who else is a genuine, nailed-on, up-to-standard United player? (Accept that Cunha might get there: but ordinary – or mixed – of late. Weirdly perhaps, Martinez has that combination of flinty resilience and composure, when on his game, that has marked-out United defenders – or any other top-level defenders – over the years’ But who else?)

It’s a profoundly mediocre squad. Shockingly so, given the heft and resources of the club. There’s that general sense that United have had a majority of players regularly active in the first team who should be nowhere near a Manchester United side. Personal issues or vendettas aside, the situation was never sustainable.

I’ve had more sympathy than many, for Ar Ruben. Likeable. Plainly honest. With a rare dash of humility. Obsessive, for sure and probably too inflexible over his system(s).

He will have arrived knowing United were poor, but surely believing he could coach even ordinary players towards that cohesiveness and dynamism so intrinsic to his playing style. He would have thought that Mainoo, Rashford and the rest would follow him and commit. We may never know how those two potentially key players drifted so disastrously and early from the cause but the gaffer has to take some responsibility for not gaining their trust, re-claiming them for the club. Even if their egos or insecurities were instrumental towards their exclusion or exit.

The word manager has become central to the regime-change. Amorim was strident, in his last presser, about how he was recruited under that term. (He did not elaborate, but was evidently suggesting the distinction between Proper Gafferhood and the role of the coach). I suspect he has been wronged on this – undermined and re-imagined by the United hierarchy in a role with less power, in short. He thought he would be the man to buy and sell – or at least decide about buying and selling – as well as select, day-to-day. He thought he was going to be supported, even, in that wider re-mit. No. He was going to be watched-over, then over-ruled by Presiding Individuals. This is why the ‘Head Coach’ got angry; felt betrayed.

I said when Amorim joined the club that he was probably better than they deserved. This still may be true – particularly in the sense of him being a richly capable and honourable man. United have been dogshit for an age. The hierarchy (whom of course we know very little about) may still be stinking the place out.

Ironically and maybe inevitably, there have been a few signs that football may at some stage have broken out, should RA have seen out the season. Ill-timed injuries – ha! When are they not? – have broken the flow that might have resulted from an attacking midfield containing Fernandes, Cunha and a rejuvenating Mount. Young defenders have threatened to look the part, on times, almost obscuring the possibility that a back three containing a fit Martinez, De Ligt and Maguire *might* be competitive, possibly to a high level, in a division where a Manchester United side that patently ‘can’t defend’ stand sixth. A certain energy was flickering, in possession of the ball.

But any bunch of clowns could score against them… and mostly, they did. So any flickers of optimism were soon doused. Mediocre players were failing to do their jobs… but so too was Amorim. Not scary enough to demand improvement and get it. Not convincing enough to free up creativity and flow. Not inspiring enough to be really followed, culture-wise. So ultimately responsible.

Image from BBC Sport.

Town.

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Fan-dom. Funny old game, eh? Maybe particularly when you’re a part-timer (like me), living 340 miles from the object of your viceral-tribal lurv-thing, or whatever it is.

Town. Grew up there and went to virtually every home game, aged 10-15. Then plenty more aged 15-22. Then on special occasions; ‘home visits’.

Been in Wales, see, for forty years or more. (And what a glorious privilege it’s been). So family life – my own, kids etc – got in the way of journeys Up North and back in time. But been doing more, largely due to our mum’s illness, and it’s all tugging a bit.

With every visit the realisations multiply, somehow. Unconscious or inexplicable truths around the magnitude of early life, early mates. Might not be the case for everybody but clear to me now that those mates from Primary School were and are about as good and as key as you’re ever gonna get. Torn between eulogising them and moving on: the universe probably needs to hear about the fabulous ordinary guys who have carried me through life, and will probably carry me out of it, unsung. But too intrusive of their quietness to go naming it. Too invasive of their unshowy, implacably honest ground.

All this feeds in to football. Those individuals; our tribe. I walk the genuinely grim or grimy streets around Blundell Park, on *that mission*: to go support the lads. (Yes they do finally have a women’s team but I’m too late and too far away to participate in that welcome ‘innovation’). The lads, who used to be Stuart Brace and Matt Tees before Terry Donovan and Mike Brolly became the boys Vernam, Rose and Warren. Six times I’ve walked in there, in the last year, through but with the other daft buggers in their Town clobber. Dads. Grandads. Mums. Daughters. All kinda sounding the same. All wanting the same and feeling some kind of connection: to this Town; to this place.

Football. I hate loads about it – the cheating, the money, the ‘Authorities’ near and far. The 21st century moral black hole of it. But walking briskly in, as you do, to Grimsby Town FC, at Blundell Park Cleethorpes is a wonderful, grounding pleasure. And it registers win lose or draw.

Last night I couldn’t be there. And/but they were on the tellybox. Tranmere. We’re 9th, they’re 16th in the table, or were. I’m watching from Pembrokeshire.

It looks a decent night – and the commentator says as much – before soon changing his tune. (You’re right up against the Humber/North Sea estuary multiplex, generally haunted by apocalyptic, cod-hurling ‘showers’. We soon got one). Important game for both sides; the brief interviews with the respective managers reinforced that view. Artell for GTFC thoughtful in that articulate, passive-aggressive way that he has.

Town have been dropping-off, results-wise, despite having a good coach and a solid, possibly even exceptional wider culture. Whether it’s a dip in confidence, or the presence of TV cameras, who knows, but Grimsby are poor in the first half. The squad has as many players who look good on the ball as the top handful of sides in the division but they fell into that awful lower-league hoofing-thing. Almost every contact with the ball was a ‘clearance’. It was Sunday League. Tranmere were better *and* they were winning every second ball. (So not only were Town failing to play to their footballing strengths, they were failing to compete). No complaints that Tranmere lead 1-0 at the break.

I’m a coach and slinger of wild opinions so let’s get into this. Warren, Turi, Vernam and Rose are good players at this level. And more broadly Artell has deliberately gathered a squad who can play patient, skilful (dare I say it?) intelligent football. Phases of passing. Good movement. Ball into feet. Rehearsed plays. I’ve watched them do it, often impressively. Last night they were without their best player, McEachran, who sits and passes and turns and makes the thing tick. But Turi – the guy tasked with filling the McEachran-shaped hole – can also play. Last night, for much of the game, Pym, the keeper and the likes of Warren (unusually and disappointingly) were clattering the ball over his head, bypassing the central midfield.

This is ok if it works. Last night, for 45 mins plus, it was bloody awful. Turi failed to show, or impose his will on the frankly amateurish chaos around him. Rose almost literally never got a touch, reinforcing the belief that he simply can’t play unless Town are threading balls in to feet. Vernam had an absolute ‘mare, from start to finish. Walker – who *does do* this – spent about an hour solely intent on drawing fouls. (For me, he was an embarrassment but he’s not alone at the club for ‘falling easily’: and yes I am happy to call out the coaching staff on this. Of course they are seeing #PremierLeagueLegends do this on a daily basis, but for me Artell and co should be discouraging it not using it as a strategic tool).

But on. To a second half where the Mariners found themselves and a good dollop of their game, equalising before probing for the winner that they may have deserved. As he often does, Artell made smart, timely substitutions and had obviously *had words|* about the lack of courage and composure in the first period. Burns, who for the first time in my limited experience looked a threat, scored a fine goal and would have notched a decisive second but for a remarkable save for Tranmere’s superannuated keeper. It was ‘all Town’ until, disastrously, the defence switched-off and allowed the visitors to *absolutely steal it* in the 96th minute. Horror show!

I had a brother and plenty mates there. They will have felt distraught at that cruel denouement but also at the capitulation in the first half. Town stopped doing it the Town Way. Good players stopped being brave enough to show and to pass to feet. It’s happened a zillion times, at a million clubs. But bloody tough to see that at your own.

Let’s party.

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Remarkable in terms of the record and remarkable because of how it felt. Wiegman and England.

The manager (or is it coach?) *really must* have something extraordinary going on. We can only guess that it oozes out from that intellectual calm. And maybe that her huddles are truly and genuinely inspirational.

This is not to say that the woman from The Hague can’t plan, or juggle, or read the game. Surely only Emma Hayes is at Wiegman level in terms of strategy and tactical awarenesses? But where Hayes has a physical presence, Ar Sarina has that quaker-like calm.

She’s needed it. Because (here’s where it gets weird) not only is there an argument that her team repeatedly scraped through this thing but also that very few of them played anywhere near their capacity. Might sound ungenerous or even churlish but that rarest of things the Dispassionate View might see things thataway. Look; if it could be remotely possible to judge (and by this I mean set aside the excitement and the drama and *really judge*) then who gets an 8/10, say, over the tournament?

Before you people freak out at the essential negativity here let me offer a friendly biff around the bonce. I get this… and I get that – duh – if Ingerland really underperformed, then clearly they can get to a frightening level. One where we really might dispassionately talk of dynasties. They won here – wow! Let’s party! – without generating phases of play; without relentlessly closing down; without being all that good. It was a remarkable case (to use a Proper English phrase) of muddling through.

Hampton. Hampton was consistently good. The farces around penalties foisted her into another space, where palpitations and ardent, myopic tribalism inevitably cast her as hero and legend. She made some goodish penalty saves… but most of us would have saved them. No matter: for her general, allround goalkeeping play, she gets an 8. Excellent temperament. Strikes the ball well and often beautifully. HH – who let’s remember turned the issue of the Earps-void or Earps-omission into a non-issue – is now unarguably in the top two or three keepers on the planet. She played to her level consistently. I’m not sure anyone else did.

Walsh is often quiet – it’s just the way she plays – but she was relatively uninfluential. Stanway was mixed. Williamson has sublime composure and head-up passing quality but apart from an accomplished display in the final, the captain was decent rather than exceptional. Toone was in and out, bits and pieces, as she has been for eighteen months. Mead likewise. Hemp had a strongish final but was disappointing through the tournament. Carter looked what she is: honest, strong but limited. Greenwood played below her best – her best being ver-ry good, both in defence and going forward. Less arrowed passes, less brilliant dead balls.

James and Bronze have both been crocked. Bronze still managed to be a key figure, despite being vulnerable last night. Her courage may hoist her rating above 7; I’ll leave that to you. James, apart from that thrilling early goal, was nowhere near her beguiling best – but crocked.

I’m a huge fan of Russo, who (as previously noted) may have the best engine in world football. Outside the box she’s fabulous. Can hold and turn and run like hell. Her energy and sheer willingness are sensational. She got a good solid header in to equalise Spain’s lovely (but poorly-defended) opener but *did miss* opportunities in the earlier rounds and is not, in my view a great finisher generally. Wiegman may, however, put Russo’s name down on the team-mate before anybody else’s and I would have no argument. She has class… and she has that engine.

I too must dash. Let the other scribes do the ‘definitive’ stories and the marks out of ten. I’ve a mum with dementia in front of me and no time to unscramble the scramble.

England won two on the bounce – incredible. Penalties again, entirely credibly but also veering towards another mess. But no. Charles and somebody else and then Kelly stood up. The latter loves the theatre of this and embodies it. A mischievous prance at the ball and this time a fluent, fabulous connection. Job done and let’s party.

Wins just happening.

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It’s dangerous but it feels important and maybe even right to stick down a few things about the Lionesses. Knowing they will be judged – not by many, of course, but judged. These things are true for me. Let’s get the vilest or most contentious one out the way first-up.

The penalty fluff-out means we can’t go calling these women #warriors*. It was an international embarrassment and it was bad for the women’s game.

(*OK. Qualification  numero uno. You could probably describe Bronze’s performance as heroic, and therefore warrior-like. She brought everything. I might argue that the only other England player to play up to their level – and therefore express courage in a different sense – was Kelly, who came on and performed).

We can’t describe Hampton’s performance as unequivocally heroic, because she was mediocre during the second half, and wasteful with those strangely over-pumped hoofs up the park – twenty five yards beyond her attack. (Probably adrenaline or stress but weirdly in-keeping with the general level of mis-execution). Yes she may be the best keeper in the tournament for her driven passes and general work, and yes she went into the shootout with three hundredweight of cotton wool up her nozzer, but how many penalties did she actually *have to save?*) Let her enjoy her moment, absolutely, but this was a win conjured by abstracted qualities, barely (if at all?) expressed.

Blimey. What does that even mean?

It means England have quality – they have the second or third best squad in the tournament – and this can out in extraordinary, fascinating, infuriating or cruelly redemptive ways. Russo can ‘earn’ you a win for her lionhearted and endless running, despite her repeatedly poor finishing. (Missed headers in the tournament, rather feebly missed shooting chances and a continuing and concerning lack of fox-in-the-boxness. But all that wonderful other stuff!). Greenwood can earn you a win for her rare steadiness and drilled crossfield passes. James can earn you a win, with her electrifying brilliance. Or maybe Sweden can just out-capitulate you in the lottery that is the shootout.

England can be truly lousy, defensively, from Carter’s workaday limitations to Williamson’s fabulous-but-flawed, non-physical, almost metaphysical reliance on wit and game-reading skills. They can be painfully easy to play through or around: Sweden did that, first half.

Esme Morgan, who replaced her injured skipper, is a profoundly good footballer but she is almost nailed-on to offer a howler, as she did late in extra-time, almost ‘fatally’. Walsh is a sort of elite water-carrier very much in the mould of the modern Academy Era: deeply proficient at rebounding passes and playing safe and short. But like those central defenders, you wouldn’t mind playing against her. There is something there that you can really open up.

But hang on. We should note to the universe that Ingerland did stir impressively to grab back a) a chance and then b) the initiative with firstly a great goal (made by Kelly and finished by Bronze) and the momentum-capping scramble ninety seconds later. Russo might even have won it before extra-time had she not failed to sort her feet again. However, England’s fresh legs looked like they might carry them through, as the 90 minutes expired.

Extra-time was almost all Sweden. The multiplicity of changes (and/or tiredness mental or physical, and/or possibly inadequate direction) saw Wiegman’s side look listless and open as overtime ticked away. Sweden, not the Lionesses, had heads up and energy re-primed. England had little of the ball, making almost no phases of play. (In fact England rarely do this – other than those sideways or backwards rebounds between central midfield or defenders. Walsh making 80 passes with almost none of them counting). Then we had those penalties.

I dislike pens but concede immediately and pitifully that we probably have to go there in the modern era. These were garbage: an embarrassment. The players and staff will know that and do that juggle where they both acknowledge and move on. But they should note that because of Mead’s anaemic performances over many months and James’s in-out temperament, they may need to be taking pen 12 and 13.

England have been fortunate again in the draw and I expect them to make the final. They should. They may go on and win it, dynamically and with style. They do have quality. But almost everywhere you look, they also have soft-spots. Players who get that glazed eyes thing or that rush of fear. Wiegman really must be exceptional at galvanising something but it’s hard to identify what it is. Because errors. Because despite the evidence of wins, she will know she has players who cannot execute really simple things, in the moment.

Be honest, despite this evidence of comebacks and ‘resolve’, which of them feels deeply and inviolably resolute? Or perhaps more exactly, which of them has you confident that they will deliver? Maybe Bronze and Greenwood. All of Toone, Mead, Hemp, Stanway and James do feel bit willowy*, do they not – or susceptible to pressure? (Is that* a cruel word to use? If so, apologise. Reaching for the truth of this. And I acknowledge that Stanway and Toone – arguably all of them – do have a certain kind of toughness. These things are complex).

So wow; we have quite a phenomenon here. The cool record shows England, who really do have top players, are also consistently defying this litany of perceived vulnerabilities. Meaning either I’m wrong with much of the above – entirely possible, of course – or that perhaps their wins, or any wins do *just happen?* And perhaps this is wonderful?

Tuchel and Ingerland.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

It was an eyebrow-lifter, was it not? The moment when That Mad Bloke got England? That German Bloke, even. A genuinely, interestingly, eyebrow-raisingly spiky decision, from the traditional bland kings of slumbering risk-aversion. Tuchel; as gaffer. I liked it. It was fraught. It was perverse, almost. The fella’s just as likely to break out a samurai sword on the touchline as win you the World Cup.

And yet I also liked it because I’m the bloke who wrote blogs saying that even when City and Liverpool were magbloodynificent, coupla years back, briefly, Tuchel’s Chelsea were better. For a period of six or eight weeks. They were the best club side in the world. So yeh. There is both his incendiary mania-thing going on… and some brilliance.

Two games in and of course we’re still wondering. Two games won against ver-ry ordinary sides. (And no I’m not buying that ‘there are no easy games’ bollocks: Lewis-Skelly doesn’t get to march into centre-left midfield and put his headphones back on, if there are no easy games). Whoever-it-was and then Latvia are going to work, sure, and be disciplined in the modern way – have shape, have intensity – but provided you stay honest and pick your final passes you’re going to beat them. Which brings us directly to Rashford.

A confession: I do want Tuchel to bring his flamethrower to this group, which may be kinda institutionally complacent. But I also want him to cuddle and cajole. Rashford, having played the overwhelming bulk of the available minutes, despite having created almost nothing, is the most obvious recipient of Tuchel-faith – Tuchel-lurv, even. The gaffer is giving him every chance… and then some.

This conflicts your honourable scribe. A) I’m generally soft-leftie and have spent much of my life encouraging kids. B) Gramps played for MU. C) Ar Marcus *is conscious* and was plainly one the most thrilling forwards in Europe, about three years ago. His manager was obviously watching. (Klang! The thought strikes that like countryman Klopp, he may even be soft-leftie: but I doubt it and let’s move on).

Rashford nosedived and embarrassed himself at Old Trafford, over recent times. His ‘resurrection’ at Villa has been heavily overplayed. Tuchel, however, is not to be distracted from his generosity (or Rashness – geddit?) around this. I’m fine with that for now – coaching is, after all, the art of Reading the Human – so we must hope that the manager’s belief is founded on something. It may be: I hope it works out.

The player should be at his peak. I’m thinking he gets either one more go at producing before either the relationship turns towards a one-way bawl-fest, or he is quietly dropped. Rashford has had lots of possession against ordinary defenders but repeatedly beaten himself, found the opposition or fluffed his final pass.

Last night, on the other flank, Bowen had about ten percent of the opportunities Rashford had. He was effectively excluded from the game by that cruel tactical discipline around keeping shape and offering width. I felt a little sorry for him but the anarchist in me thinks maybe show a bitta spirit, son. Release the shackles; ignore that baying from behind the laptops. Race in, towards the ball. Get in the fakkin’ gaaame, san. Nick it off Rice’s toes and storm off darn the pitch. ‘Create sammink’. More fun and probably more fruitful than all that passive feet on the touchline stuff. Do that three or four times in the ninety minutes. Change the vibe and maybe the game. The alternative is you getting hoiked on the hour for ‘not being involved’.

The new England manager will have learned from games one and two. He will want his team to look less like the Old Regime – and certainly these performances felt Southgateian in terms of all that ‘patient possession’ and relatively little threat or urgency. So dull, largely. He will no doubt be clearer that Palmer and Saka will be a meaningful upgrade on Bowen and Rashford and that Rogers is a contender, despite fluffing some of his better moments against Latvia.

That retro-feel back three/five blend, with Burns as Jack Charlton and Lewis-Skelly as Kenny Sansome may work, and may even offer significant threat at t’other end of the park. Their partners seem much-of-a-muchness, their reasonable comfort on the ball and goodish pace and awareness feeling pretty interchangeable. All of Konsa, Guehi and Lewis-Skelly do that thing where they use their bodies to draw fouls as a first resort. (Don’t like it but this is where we are). Rice must play – obvs – and Bellingham, though the latter’s role may need to be considered against a fit Palmer’s strengths.

Foden is a fabulous player in search of a consistent England slot: he deserves it but may not get it. Pickford had his dead-cert-one-in-a-game moment when he took out Guehi and offered the centre-forward an open net, but the chance was woefully passed over. The keeper now has 70-plus caps, which can only point to a relative dearth of truly brilliant and consistent performers between the sticks. (In case you’re wondering, I do get the argument that Pickford is certainly a top, top performer, just not a great goalie). Walker feels like a man from another era: but still may do a job until someone who can still fizz comes in. James has always been a fine player. His superb free-kick surprised none of us. If he can get or stay really fit, for me he plays.

Let’s finish with that terrible Anglo-centric confliction: that Ingerland won but underwhelmed us all over again. Because they were mixed when we hoped they might be brilliant. Because *all that possession* but little purpose, with urgency no longer being a thing – or being a subordinate thing to the demonstration of tactical wizardry. Because of too many conceits and too few freedoms or instincts. Because of a kind of generational arrogance and ultimately an inability to execute to high standards. Oh – and because our expectations aren’t realistic, because we’re English.

 Over to you, T.T.

Time.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Blimey, pre-navel-gazing navel gazing. Should I bother? How is it even possible to say something without scratching-up the stalest of territory – about England, about Southgate, about me sounding like a fan, not some responsible authority? It’s probably not. It’s probably not worth it. But so few of the Bigtime Charlies say anything sharp, or interesting, or tactically right, or with the visceral power or heart of the fan, that *right now*, I’m ploughing back into this. (May bin it; if I feel it neither stays true nor contributes anything worthwhile).

England got beat. Not just that, they got beat too easily, given the Southgate Culture-Matrix. That may have been the signature disappointment from the Three Lions perspective, given the now widely-held view of Garethism as a sort of well-meaning (but maybe not exactly purring) blanket of all-court, essentially defensive integrity with occasional flyers.

Walker and Guehi both made poor errors – lazy lapses – to concede the goals but generally, the team in white were off the pace, unable to intercede, were at some distance from their opposition. Given that Article A of the game plan must have read ‘we have to be on it and we have to stop them playing’ this was a pret-ty fundamental flaw, execution-wise, from England. If we were to seek comfort in the bosom of the obvious, we might say that none of Rice/Bellingham/Mainoo/Foden ‘laid a glove’ on their counterparts.

If it was in the plan to sit and not press anywhere at any time then o-kaaay. That retreat would have to be sensationally durable and watchful. (Meaning it may be theoretically possible but England are nowhere near bright or disciplined enough for that). In any case, whilst of course there was an intention to drop and defend stoutly and compellingly, the almost complete and sustained absence of pressure on the ball gifted Spain the opportunity to show the universe that they are indeed the Best Team in this Tournament by a Country Mile.

You can read this as another crass shout-out for a high, hard press, if you want. Another red-faced fan bawling for more Proper Englishness; more heart; more battle. (I don’t see it that way, but carry on). It’s more that England lacked both the legs and intent to pressure Spanish possession intelligently. When a difference could or needed to be made. Some of that can be coached; some, maybe not.

So, again generally, virtually the whole of the England side looked off the pace – reactive, some would say, in the mould and manner of their coach. Bellingham had that weird slo-mo thing of his going on; looking under-geared, getting caught in possession like some out-of-sync giant. Mainoo and Rice were absent as a force, somehow managing to avoid the bread-and-butter stuff as well as the occasional heads-up thrust. Their defence felt non-interventionist, somehow, as the lads in red simply passed to guys in space, who were routinely showing.

Which brings us to Kane. The fella may have been playing hurt the whole tournament… but he’s simply not been playing. Bollocks to the penalties; his contribution was garbage throughout. (Garbage – yes, a word a fan might use, in anger, probably).

I got bit angry with Kane for his almost complete lameness and unavailability and occasional his feeble exaggeration of contact or injury. He ran nowhere and won nothing. He rarely showed. The skipper may be a trusted player, friend and ally for Southgate but he was patently, for whatever reason, unable to contribute. The gaffer, *finally* – for the ludicrously, much-vaunted ‘bold withdrawal’ in favour of Watkins in the previous game was clearly long-delayed – called Kane in around the hour.

The other sub, Palmer, rather predictably woke England up from their slumber. There was a brief period where a contest threatened to brew, but as Pickford appeared to be the appointed (and arguably sole) pinger of vertical passes, the English Threat melted away relatively weakly. There was no great stirring. What we got from Southgate’s team was more of the low energy, menace-lite holding patterns we’ve seen throughout the competition. Players in deep positions lending other players the ball, partly, in fairness because the lads higher up the park lack the wit, spirit, confidence or freedom to burst into space and either gather and turn or race forward.

Most of that is about culture – about the coaching. Elite coaches create environments but they also groove the moves; Guardiola being the peak example. Spain have certainly been offered ‘the freedom to play’ by their gaffer but they have also been instructed to use their bright, incisive little passes. They’ve practiced getting on their proverbial bikes to find places of danger. De la Fuente plainly not only wants them to play generous attacking football but he has had the understanding and the wit to cultivate and then execute that aspiration. On the plus side, this is precisely why the BTTCM won Euro 24. The negative for England is that Southgate has never understood nor been able to produce this – particularly against good opposition.

Nothing is simple and everything is opinion. Mine is that Southgate is an almost fabulous bloke, who has led his country outstandingly well, in socio-political terms. (This is not a backhanded compliment). But despite his longer-term tournament record ‘speaking for itself’, England have mostly been a poor watch and have been beaten by teams who, like them, have strong playing resources. In this tournament, they played one half of football. One half. Outside of that, they had moments.

For a squad including Bellingham, Foden, Saka, Kane, Rice – you name the ones you rate – this both matters and (for me) should be weighed in. There is or should be an aspiration and a will to play entertaining football; particularly if you have ‘players’. In qualifiers, England have sometimes offered quality and even verve. At the major events? No. Largely caution and game-management of a dour, life-squishing kind. In Germany, during a tournament lit up by the fluency and threat of a free-spirited but well-drilled Spanish side, England were poor, despite making another final.

I am happy for Southgate to be knighted. With our respect and our thanks. He should also go – unquestionably. It’s just time.

Disappointments.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

I don’t know anybody who actually thought Southgate would ‘ring the changes’ at half-time, last night. (Did the pundits actually expect that? I muted, early-doors but not before hearing Neville saying something hugely bold and generous about Trent: fair dooos, for a United Man). But the no subs thing became like some Uber-Gareth phenomenon, eh, as the deathly stasis wore on? There became something Ansel Adams-like about both the epic, barren non-performance of his side, and the vacant-but-rich flat-lining image we innocent bystanders were conjuring of the post-match interview, pre-Bellingham.

It would have been some vista, that, with Southgate’s magnificent chin set hard against an ominously swirling backdrop of plastic pint-pots, bratwursts and in then out-of-focus flags. He would have said something about ‘belief in the boys and the process’ before the lads from St Jan’s Ambulance dragged him away by the legs.

But Bellingham – out-of-form, largely; laboured and even a little lame with some of his in-box theatrix – did happen. He did conjure something spectacular and mad: in all this dullness. Gareth was spared – we were all, all spared. The Exceptional Reality that us Inglish inhabit got another nick in the bedpost… and those laughable hours of non-intervention by the coach turned out alright. Gareth could march once more through the miraculous madness/genius corridor and fight (or flee) another day.

I don’t know anybody who is crediting Southgate for any of this: I genuinely don’t think I know anybody who thinks he was right to wait and wait. And this is not because we lack patience or understanding; most of us respect the idea that faith in players is or can be both wonderful and (wot’s the word?) redemptive. The gaffer can and will make the argument that a) he was right in theory and b) (obvs) that he was right in practice. Kane may have been every bit as non-interventionist as his coach, during the tournament and the game, but the bloke nodded the winner. So it’s true that things worked out… and true that most of the universe raged against what felt like patent and even cowardly inaction from the England coaching staff.

Fabulous, ‘deadly’, daft contraflows remain. Those of us who have been angry at and critical of Southgate are the opposite of chastened and appeased. Despite noting the egg on our faces and the bare, extraordinary facts – and the undeniable decency of the man – we are unable to get with Gareth’s theory. (If there is one). The performance was yet again so dispiritingly one-paced and so dull that we dip into the weirdly abstract. How can we enjoy that stuff? In what way is this meant to lift or entertain us? (Even with that Late Drama it still registered as something closer to profound disappointment and embarrassment than to joy). Can’t we do better than this? With that fekkun line-up, surely we can do better than this?

I’m not sure that passage through trumps enjoyment, I’m really not. Friends and family have been saying since the first game that they don’t want England to go through playing like that. (Fact!) They’d rather someone else wins it, playing watchable or hopefully exciting football.

The Meedya barely registers this: as though *things really are* only about winning. There’s this assumption that fans only care about those bedpost notches – I assume because that plays in (or helpfully conforms to) the corporate/’Premier League’ mentality around buying into bigness. Sure we hear plenty loudmouthed donkeys on phone-ins adding fuel to that blinding fire: but I hear and I feel a whole lot more generosity from fans, than that. We care about levels of effort and commitment and heart and we value entertainment.

England are no doubt committed and no doubt they love their country – whatever that means. But there’s a heavy dollop of delusion in there, too. They probably do believe their dull pattern is ‘doing a decent job’. They probably think that ball retention is an end in itself, because ‘chances will come’. Bellingham probably did enjoy sticking it to all of us critics, by sticking that ball in the net. There probably is some truth in all of these views. Patience may be key, may be proven to be key. 2-1. Onward.

England may yet go on and win this tournament. But even if things change now, and they turn dramatically into a thrillingly inventive and creative side, fans local and distant will be underwhelmed. In one sense it’s already too late. There really is a Bigger Picture. We’ve seen a whole series of poor performances. Truly fine players have looked lost in a matrix of sluggishness. A team featuring Foden, Bellingham, Saka and Kane has offered almost no threat. That’s a disappointment: yes?