Manchester United

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.

‘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.

Sancho.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Difficult to know, from where most of us are sitting, whether Jadon Sancho has been genuinely worryingly depressed, following his difficult time are Manchester United, or if he’s ‘more simply(?)’ been cheesed-off at his various demotions.

Both scenarios are unfortunate, but only one of them legitimately invokes our sympathy. Either way, and let’s be clear, there may be lots of ways, in this peculiarly contemporary saga – so wise to bin the binaries medium-pronto, yes? – one of few incontrovertible truths here may be the one about how Sancho played his way out of contention. He was poor, on the pitch. But how much of that was a function of stiff, unskilled management of a sensitive or complex soul and how much is down to raw or rather dumb brattishness or lack of application from the player? And, hang on, is that already sounding like another dynamic, oversimplistic duo? ‘Misunderstood’, or ‘Typical Modern Player: lightweight?’

Time-out – early. It can be fun and even invigorating to latch onto View A and judge: or B. It’s just not clever. Deep breath; look in mirror; extend tongue out for inspection. Sniff and re-gather.

We might suspect that Ten Hag is as impassively wooden as his clipped Dutch accent makes him sound. We know that Sancho’s poor timekeeping has been noted over a period – not just at United. But he doesn’t look or feel like a rebel-without-a-clue. Some of us wonder whether the lad was really that good when he came in, or if his stint in Germany was dotted with inconsistency or peripherality. We didn’t really see. Was he truly high-level brilliant, or merely sometimes electrifying? If the former, does over-expectation figure in the matrix, from early-doors?

We ask this because from the moment he stepped out for M U, he rarely looked a top player. Sancho – or this Sancho – could neither do that twisting-the-blood thing nor convincingly play within himself, like an elite player-in-transit might, before finding his or her groove. He looked so short of confidence that even gearing-down to a ‘simple game’ looked beyond him.

We know that (or hear that) a man-hug can sometimes sort this out. The proverbial ‘arm around’. Klopp is likely to be a master at this; Ten Hag, less so. But this does not at all mean that Sancho wasn’t getting enough love, in those early days. He may have been. And besides, for all the legitimate talk of confidence and wellbeing, there is an argument that *in this particular environment*, a measure of resilience is a requirement. Professional sport searches for and supports confidence and makes demands of it. The competitor needs to be resilient: they know this. Theoretically.

An individual may well be delusional about their own contribution but they are aware of what is required. Everywhere, the word ‘expectations’. Who gets in their ears, from club, per-group or family, when times then become challenging, is therefore important. Who’s ‘around?’ How is the challenge met?

Big Brutal Picture. The very nature of ‘form’ – real, constructed or subjectively-viewed – implies judgement and consequence. Sancho plays repeatedly below par and (despite help/support/concern for his wellbeing) he has to be dropped. Whatever the family or agent are saying. Dropped. Not for being a bad man or a weak man or anything else but for playing below par. The reasons are important… but secondary. They will be attended to, but for now, it’s Arsenal away. If, after time, the club hierarchy become displeased by poor attitude or timekeeping or lack of commitment to training; or if the player sparks any difficulties in relationships through petulance or perceived arrogance, then that’s different. Things will deteriorate. The exclusion-through-performance becomes exclusion for misdemeanour.

This will be, weirdly, both an absurdly cushy environment and a disciplined one. (That mad binary is true). Players both ‘don’t know they’re born’ *and* are under a cruel spotlight. Training sessions filmed; contributions checked and logged; bodies sat-navved. Sancho has seemed too bland to fit the role of Champagne Charlie; too quiet to be a subversive. And yet he was banished, to train ‘elsewhere’, suggesting something personal in the drift. Words must have been said.

Of course the club has responsibilities (as well as financial incentives) towards keeping players happy and well. Sancho was a signature investment; whatever the reasons for his poor return, it seems certain that substantial efforts, whether by personal interventions or professional support, will have been made initially, towards appeasing any issues and building ways back to expected form. At Point X, though, a falling-out occurred – a few unwise or spiteful words from either player or manager or both. Given the power-distribution in the relationship, this could only go one way. Ten Hag was right to look to offload.

Leaving, of course, more questions – principally, I would argue, about the younger man. Like who has been around him? He doesn’t appear to have the strut or inclination of a rebel. Who’s in his ear? He was dropped, for playing badly or to little effect. Fine. Work hard, play your way back in. But no. Before we know it trust and those key relationships – that key relationship! – are gone. Busted. We lurch into less edifying territory.

How truly vulnerable has Sancho been? Why this MASSIVE FALL? Why the sense of animosity, as opposed to shared purpose? Oh – and have people in either camp – or both – been, yaknow, *clutching at agendas?*

This dispiriting episode may yet prove more unsatisfactory if it turns out the player could have bitten his lip and knuckled down but for other influences. Or is he really just a bit young, a bit deluded… a bit unable to accept the non-negotiables?

Sancho will really have to work to restore himself, now. I genuinely hope he can.

Pic from Daily Telegraph.