Liverpool FC

‘Ank Marvin: & traditions like Easter.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Ah the voices. In my head, broiling or brewing or maybe just a chemical reaction to the (breaking) toast or full-on sausage sarny issue swishing abart in me stomach. Should be writing on cricket – Glam and the boy Northeast. No! Goddabee United! Or maybe drop back into women’s cricket mode? Bouchier and the Shawly-Redemptive Amy Jones Not-Shanking-to-the-Circle thing? Or maybe the whole lot? Or more wisely (don’t be daft) *not writing at all* while everything remains a mess.

*Nips to kitchen. Pricks bangers.*

Hunger and too much sport. These are the great tormentors. Caffling-up our very souls, I tell you – or at least competing with the crap wifi to undermine our otherwise serene (s)elective processes. Eng Women in NZ. Town in the mire. Glammy in dreamland. Celtic-Rangers. Paree-Roubaix. United in hysterical disarray. Days – longer days! – melting into Eastery, chocolatey night and then back into febrile couch-surfing. Our choices once again cruelly undermined by a heathenfest of opportunity. What day is it, anyway? Did I really do all that chocolate?

Sometime in the last x hours I was watching England lose. Until 3 am closed in around me and then socials kicked in – or maybe sleep – until a rare, spirited spurt of seamlessly decent wifi made the Old Firm possible, then MU, then bits of Tottingham. And a nod or three hundred towards Lords. Via that cycling madness. So if you’ve landed here expecting ‘clarity’ best hold on tight.

The England Women tour of Kiwiville is done. Successful, largely, in the sense that both legs – T20 and 50 over – registered a W. (Hate or o-kaaay dislike that single-letter descriptor, by the way: surely insinuated in to Proper Sport by slick graph-competent anti-souls, yes?) Batting collapses still a concern but significant positives include the emergence of Bouchier as a rival or foil to Dunkley – she’s ‘classier’ and a better athlete – and further evidence that England simply have the quality to be more dynamic than ‘chasing pack’ nations like the White Ferns, *at this stage*. (I include that qualification a) to snuff out the dangers of International Incident and b) because it’s mischievously true). On.

Jones is the other story, I suppose. Viewed by many as the best keeper in the women’s game and a stylish and clean striker of the ball – can and does score relatively quickly at 6 or 7. But for me, historically scrambled faaar too often and therefore fortunate to have retained her place in the side: lack of genuine alternatives and her work behind the sticks have kept her in there. Now three fine knocks, in succession and under the cosh, have rendered the AJ Question irrelevant. She’s been lucky… but also brilliant on this tour.

Seen New Zealand live (over here) a certain amount over the last couple of years. They’re getting there; look generally competitive in the field and have bowlers in Amelia Kerr, Rowe and Tahuhu and the two Fern Icons Bates and Devine still provide quality. At times, however, their lack of dynamism was again painfully clear. This will be and should be their signal disappointment from this series: that they were *so obviously* unable to accelerate an innings. Sure, England take some credit for this – good bowling. But the White Ferns were consistently a bit lame when they had to be (had to be!) charging. They will provide the occasional upset but must find some boom, to compete.

Glam is 100 miles away from where I live, in the west of the west. This is my excuse for being a lame supporter. No chance would I go 250-odd to Lords for their opener, so I missed the historic knock from Northeast. Loved seeing posts from friends in the ground, on the Twitters. A total over 600 in the first wallop? We’ll take that – even if subsequent days ease to a ‘no-result’ scenario.

For the first time in living memory I watched a lump of the Old Firm Derby. Incredible and hilarious. And intense, as always. Sunday League defending (see more, below) but some thrilling attacks. *That noise* raised to traditionally awesome levels: scary, inspiring, violent, unforgiving. A wildish, drawn romp with a daftish lap of celebration led by the Rangers gaffer, who took performative misunderstanding to yet another high. #Legend.

And so to MU ‘Pool, via the Paris-Roubaix, which I vowed to watch right through, after the god that is van der Poel scarpered off with almost 60k to suffer. (I *did* watch right through, knowing that I’d miss a wee chunk of the shamateurs of Manchester). On cobbles, through mud and tunnels of deranged ‘supporters’, the World Champ blasted the rest into distant mediocrity, winning by three minutes, on his own, in a display of elite-level guts, control, power and discipline that your average Premier League footballer could neither comprehend nor match. This was a flawless execution: a stunning expression of superior, hard-won gifts. (Hope to god that he’s doing this clean).

Meanwhile at Old Trafford, United continued with their own distant mediocrity, being repeatedly exposed by this goodish but not Peak Scouse-level Liverpool. Sure, United had their moments, even in a first half where the visitors might have scored four, but for lack of completion from Diaz (this we expect?) and a strangely fuzzy Mo Salah. Garnacho had an early goal struck from the record but Klopp’s raging late in the half plainly reflected the mis-match and the threat of another massacre conspiring/unpeeling towards points shared or dropped.

So it turned out. Fernandes was surly, ineffective and repeatedly shockingly wasteful but he scored a worldie. Mainoo was in and out but he scored a worldie. Salah kicked the ball straight and with conviction once, from the penalty spot, for a late equaliser.

For United the issues run on, to the point where Ten Hag must and surely will go. He’s not entirely at fault for players being woefully slack at closing down/tracking/being watchful. But he is palpably responsible for team shape and the disciplines around that. His players are not good enough – most of them. The gaffer has not been smart or tough or inspiring enough to develop or deliver the matrix.

His side remain shapeless in nearly every sense. Non-negotiables remain un-ticked. They are a million miles – still – from producing performances. Any half-decent side can play through them at will.

Klopp was incandescent on 40 minutes because United were so pitifully vulnerable and yet somehow remained in the game. The home team’s three central defenders were constantly over-run, almost incredibly, both from the flanks and through the middle of the park, where Fernandes and Mainoo barely got a foot in. Diaz and Darwin Nunes pace and movement was killing them… but then not.

The stats spoke loudly again about how many strikes on goal Manchester United concede, week after week. Even if they were a fabulous side going forward, this just doesn’t work. (And they’re not).

Eighteen months ago Rashford may have been the most electrifying striker in Europe: now he’s in his own world of pain and disillusionment. Garnacho remains a prospect – Hojlund too. The midfield is so dysfunctional it’s hard to name it. There have been, no doubt, about eight zillion man-hours expended on the training ground about defending – and maybe particularly defending counter-attacks. And United are still absolutely shite at it. So I’ve been relatively supportive of Ten Hag. But now he must go… and the squad must be gutted all over again.

Pope and dolphins and Klopp.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ 2 Comments

Big call whether to write about Pope or Klopp. May not decide ’til I’m *really in there*. Or, unsurprisingly to the three of you who fall into the Regular Readers category, that issue may remain unresolved.

Day after the first net session where I ‘ran in’ as well as set the world straight. (Been coaching every Sunday for several weeks – and still loving that – but joined some of the old guys soon to set off for Chenai for the Over 60s World Cup and yeh, had a bowl. With mixed success). Oh – and woke up this morning having to acknowledge the schoolboy error of having bowled with toenails just that wee bit too long. Other aches and pains not kicked-in yet.

But Pope. A special, timely knock, which fits with his Golden Boy trajectory-thing – that is, ‘expectation’ – and offers England a chance to meaningfully resist the Indian strut towards a win. He may, despite the distraction of that contraflow between boyishness and the vice-captaincy, be too accomplished to need public affirmation but, let’s face it, it’s always handy. This was top-level classy, in the spotlight, under the cosh, just when we needed it and probably with Delhi Belly. He may have had to overcome a slight niggle or two and no sleep ‘cos the Bharat Army were holding an all-nighter in the hotel car park. Whatever; it was special and ver-ry public. And away; in India. Massive that he got right through the day. Next up, Bumrah with a new ball.

But Klopp. Also a moment. Whether it falls into the Do You Know Where You Were category may hinge on whether you’re a red (obvs), or if you even follow the footie. (If you follow the footie to any degree then it was biggish). I can tell you where I was – and worse still, I’m gonna do that thang.

I was on the cliffs at Strumble Head, North Pembrokeshire, because a) it’s bloody sensational and b) in the faint hope that the humpback whale that (I kid you not) has been cruising the block might reveal itself again. Glorious day, but I under-clubbed on the clothing front.

Anyway, I get out of the car – a mud-splattered VW Polo, with a century on the clock – and shift the Graham Parkeresque shades that are digging into ma beak. There’s something out in front. Wow; forget that Whatsapp notifibloodycation; there’s something there. Unmistakably. It’s a byoodiful day, if parky, but I’ve stepped right into a pod of dolphins doing their arched ‘oi oi geezer’ flypast. Forget the phone. They’re no more than fifty yards off the coast. In front of the line of empty cars – again suggesting that the moment has singled me out. I adjust my box and raise ma bat.

Then I walk to the block building, where the Proper Naturalists are watching. You can tell they’re proper because they have two dogs each and lenses that reach the Wicklow Mountains. Best not talk to them before I’ve looked at the info-posters on the back wall: I need to know what’s a dolphin and what’s a porpoise. Then we can exchange pleasantries and make circuitous (but cool) enquiries about Humpy. (Dolphins have beaks; porpoises don’t).

No sightings. But there are more dolphins to our right. And the fella with the handsome hound-terrier-thing is *actually friendly*. He’s barely anal at all, despite the clobber. We could probably talk about cricket or football as well as cetaceans. I loiter and yes, do raise bi-nocs to my eyes, purposefully, before setting out towards Carregwasted, or somewhere.

Another ping finally prompts the check. Shit – it’s The Lads – meaning elite bantz and/or stuff that matters. It’s only now I see that Klopp has recorded his ‘message to the fans’. Wow. I am 157 yards north of the block building at Strumble Head when I hear that Jurgen’s dipping out. I have no connection to Liverpool Football Club but I’m genuinely bit shocked. And then, listening to that explanation, respectful – respectfully disappointed.

I’ve not spent the last twenty-four hours trawling The Athletic (or anywhere else) for in-depth analysis or Insta-goss. This can sit with me as human story; with a thoroughly good man feeling like he best escape into family life/ordinary life ASAP. He owes that to his wife: and crucially, there is life beyond football. Liverpool can’t be everything forever. If there’s a sort of continental drift going on, Klopp’s not going to let his energy combust in the subduction zone. He ain’t gonna go down and let the all-consuming consume him. There’s more ground to discover – a life to be liberated into. Fair play.

Ar Jurgen’s always been easy to love, despite the occasional touchline aberration. (Notes to universe; all managers are monsters). Klopp is unequivocally big-hearted; generous; understanding of and able to coach the best from the human spirit and the collective will. He’s urgent and deep and brilliant, with that soft-left man-hugging soulfulness being a pleasingly sharp contrast to the spiky mania and techno-genius of Pep. The German is more lovable; closer to us; good-natured. A leader who could travel on the bus or tube: and share the jokes about Hendo or the Egyptian King. Even now.

The ‘achievements’ will be listed elsewhere. They’re real, but so too is the feeling. Klopp soaked-up the power of the surge, early doors. He knew he could make a high-energy, irresistible kind of entertainment work at Anfield. It might be high tariff in terms of that gambol around possession as god: he would tilt things more towards directness than control. Liverpool would attack you. The fanbase would identify with that and quite possibly get off, just a little, on the rawness and pace and the somehow ballsy defiance expressed or implied. It would be ‘proper’.

The gaffer understood that Liverpool is unique: there was something he could harness to his own brand. This season, a patently unexceptional Liverpool side – o-kaaay, on the Grand Scale – with a strike force consisting of Mo Salah and two blokes trying to find something find themselves top of the league. Klopp is building quickly,; is ahead of the game again. But he will know that City have more quality and are more likely to approach invulnerability. The reds will need every ounce of the gaffer’s nous and ability to motivate if they are to grab the Prem title.

I do wonder if this is part of Jurgen’s thinking. Plainly he does want to enjoy some semblance of Normal Family Life, *and* avoid a critical loss of verve whilst still in post at Anfield. But could he be stirring yet more definitive defiance amongst the Scouse Posse by announcing this now? Could he be pressing green for go on one more almighty surge? Might he understand that this is the way – the best, most likely way – to keep the storm brewing? I hope the bloke can do it.

The Universe Podcast 3: Ian Herbert, on the ‘Quiet Genius’ of sport.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Hold the front page! The mighty cricketmanwales.com Multinational Media Corporation has diversified. In a good, un-shouty way.

Distinguished sports journo Ian Herbert joins us and we talk sports… journalism…a-and everything. We shuffle through football history from Shankly/Paisley to Fergie to Mourinho, Klopp and Guardiola.

There are nuggets, there is experience, there is a lorryload of humility and integrity – remember that? – and there are points of view. The fella @cricketmanwales sits back and listens because Herbs actually really does know how it is/was at Anfield, Old Trafford, Maine Road/wherever it is that City play at now.

I’ll say nothing more – the man was sparklingly lucid on everything from the hows and whys of writing (and the relative value of sports-journalism) to the impenetrable, infuriating cocoons around people in elite football. Have a listen.

 

 

Okaaaay. Listened back, more than once. Am struck by several things, the first and most significant being how brilliant Herbs was/is.

Yes (he knows) he’s working for a paper many of us regard as the most poisonous rag on the planet but I do still stand by my initial reaction; that he’s a profoundly good man, absolutely committed to grafting, honouring and taking pride in the role of professional journalist. If this makes him sound Old School, then I imagine he’d live with that; however in this case the phrase does not imply any retreat into sentimentality, smugness or that mild brutalism that can come with ‘experience in the trade’. Herbs is more Ronnie Whelan than Sounness, I reckon.

Strikes me Ian Herbert is a thinker and fan and has precious banks of knowledge; some of it about the subject (football, mainly) but much of it about the process, the art of sports-writing – of journalism. Crucially, he also has seemingly limitless, top-end stories.

Those of you who know me through cricketmanwales.com or bowlingatvincent.com will I hope enjoy, as I do, the ironies around me – of all people! – hosting Herbs’s mantra about ‘3 facts per piece’. (I’m the bloke who kinda revels in being described by some respected dramaturg in my distant past as a ‘freewheeling absurdist’ and yup, that’s a fair cop: I get absolutely that the word indulgent may well have been invented with me in mind).

What Ian says about this is brilliant; it’s a key reminder and a warning for anyone who writes anything, arguably. They are actually wise words. Tell us something new – this is where the value is.

I truly heard what Herbs was saying and will genuinely carry it with me but my arguments around this are very different… because I don’t see myself as a journalist. I don’t report on things, I take diabolical liberties with words en route to an honest response to the universe – honest in the sense of being accurate to how I understand it. My writing is a flush of the un-wise, the immediate and the daft-expressionistic – which I know brings us straight back to that indulgence thing. Don’t care: it’s how I see and feel the world so elegant, clipped, economic writing would be a lie.

(All that to offer that mind-blowing contrast suggested in the podcast. Differences and yet still everything shared).

Ian Herbert also rocked it around that whole access-to-the-stars malarkey – how the Prem in particular denies the truth by denying access and discussion. He describes this superbly – go listen again.

Interesting too, how clear he is that journalists do try (inevitably fairly unsuccessfully) to prick the Mourinho/Klopp/Guardiola bubbles. But the clubs are fiefdoms and the journo’s really are herded, gagged and dismissed. (Just me, or did you feel that this almost daily charade might be central to Herbert’s ongoing quandary over which kind of journalism he should be doing? Everywhere else you get a patent love for the game).

Overall, as well as providing a window into Paisley’s socialism and Mourinho’s mania, my guest made me think pret-ty hard about my own ways, views or assumptions; in fact he really has challenged me re that ‘What Is Writing, Really?’ thing. This is healthy.

Our conversation also made me realise that maybe I really am something of an extremist – possibly worse still, an extremist-traditionalist. (I don’t see myself that way but) I’ve drifted from football, love football markedly less because I hate that strikers want to draw a pen or get the centre-back sent off, not smash it the ferkin onion bag. I can’t stand  the deception, the diving, the pretending my face just got absolutely smashed-in when, no… it just didn’t.

Herbs can live with that; or he certainly hasn’t drifted, he certainly isn’t raging angry, because of what he sees as the context – a magnificent Premier League. I, meanwhile, have to think about this.

So where are you, sagacious listeners/readers, on this continuum? Drifted, or in love?

Tell me. It may help.