Premier League

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.

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.

Sancho.

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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.

We are the crowds.

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Life can be traumatic; we know this. Real Life and when we play.

Often, in the latter, we get sucked in to ‘traumas’ and ‘dramas’ that are so patently manufactured or disproportionate that we should be bloody embarrassed, yes? But hang on. Describing or critiquing levels of authenticity and place and value, as though there’s some hierarchy or league table of meaning? Na. We’re neck-deep in the febrile and the tribal, even us brainy-bums. We’re not gonna escape into clear philosophical waters – not whilst we’re bawling at the telly, coz those footballers are cheating.

It may be true that somehow the universe is conspiring more than ever towards some swamptastic mania, or that we’re falling into it more readily, but perhaps that suspicion is more revealing of my own relative superannuation, than any quantifiable truth? (You Statspeeps, am I right? Can we measure this out? Do ‘socials’ and the surge towards intense, short, highly-colo(u)rific events sling us with developing and increasingly irresistible force into the whirl? Are they doing it more than before? Is everything about lust and intoxication – was it always? Or am becoming a Daft Old Sod?)

Flitting between screens and sports over recent days, it strikes me that the roaring at Elland Road and Goodison, the insane closeness of mountain-stage fans at the Giro and the parallel, if changeful calm at many cricket grounds is an absolute wonder, in its breadth and its signalling of the human condition. We are mad. We are both unhinged from the actual sport and inseparable, just tossed into a capricious mind-stew. We are watchful and equitable and off our heads. We can judge with either crystalline brilliance or the feeblest and most outrageous dishonesty, the shift of a hand or foot. Depends whose team. Depends which player. Depends how many sherberts.

Everton, Leeds, Forest fans. Mad as a box of frogs – and also wonderful. But seething and on the edge, with that rather disturbing sense that they want something to hate. (That’s a bit dark, yes? Sits quite close to the fear that violence may erupt). On the footie scene, was it just me, or, at this season’s end, were there more players and managers conspicuously whipping up the crowd? Sure that’s part of the theatre but… is it a thin bit, a look-at-me bit, or something more unhelpful? Get that it’s inevitably of the now but is This Frenzy a concern – or when is it a concern?

Many of you will know that I have worked in cricket, for years, as a coach. And that I follow the game – in particular England and Wales Women. I’m fascinated by the contraflows around that whole ‘traditional’ cricket narrative and the epoch-changing turbulence currently turning the game upside-down. Again the richness is extraordinary. Go to a well-supported county game at Taunton or The Oval or Headingley and soak up that restful vibe. Check out Glos v Glam, in the Blast, on the live feed. All will be well, in the moment. But wow, behind the scenes…

The times are impacting. Politics, economics, changing fashions, greed and maladministration internationally are impacting – or have. The madness and short-sightedness of (Indocentric), 21st century capitalism is of course the particular and extraordinary context. Some would say that big-money corporatism has replaced glacial imperialism as the controlling force, and that national and county or regional boards have been sucked-in or squished, in the race to provide sexier fayre.

Plainly, in the UK, the fabulous mix of Old Money, ‘traditional support’, exclusion, inclusion and the mass of what I’m going to call *actual cricket-watchers* has been (as they euphemistically say) challenged by the bolt into newness. Things are complex but also heartfelt – so simple. Most County Cricket fans are deeply insulted by the fact of and manner in which the Hundred was parachuted-in. They find the gaudiness offensive, the PR insulting and believe it was part of a plan to slim-down the Counties, by making the Blast non-viable. They think the ECB were suckered or bundled into changes which ticked boxes but utterly disrespected those who most obviously, in their view love and support the game.

The counter-arguments are that a) change had to happen because (for example) the County Championship (and therefore the Counties) is/are not sustainable and b) cricket must grow and find a new audience. In simple terms, not enough people go to watch Four Day Cricket and the game needs re-invigorating, to draw in a further wedge of TV money.

Few of us would argue that the status quo was entirely fit for purpose, pre- the Hundred, but this not the same as backing it. (Of course we live in our own bubbles but a strong majority of the Cricket People I know think it was not just divisive but flat unnecessary… because the Blast was improving and improvable at massively lower cost, both in terms of cash and goodwill). I would also place myself in the admittedly lower percentage of people dismissing the idea of growth itself. Growth in terms of inclusion – yes, absolutely. But think it’s unrealistic and unnecessary to think in terms of a HUGE GAME. Enough can be enough – not to exclude folks – but because cricket might just always have a lower profile than football. And that might be ok: make the game better, not necessarily bigger.

It’s possible that some of those who voted in the Hundred genuinely want more diverse and younger audiences for cricket, because they feel that is right, as well as smart. It’s possible that some just fell for an attractive power-point. Either way, it was a big moment; one that has not, because of the explosion in international franchise or short-format cricket, secured the future of the game. Far from it. The wider game – the world-wide game – has lurched into another crisis. Everybody wants to own, run, or play in an IPL.

The Indian Premier League is The Beast. Now featuring a women’s tournament, its seemingly undeniable clout and import have sent cricket somewhere else entirely. The money – because of the massive Indian cricket audience, largely – is colossal and life-changing, for players. Revenue from TV and advertising is stupendous. Owners and broadcasters relentlessly ladle on the noise and the colour. It’s febrile; appropriate to the age; possibly defining it.

This affects all of us in cricket. The young players on our pathways are aware of it, administrators the world over are trying to replicate it or ‘factor it in’ – whether that be to corporate planning or junior training. Elite players are right now deciding whether to go all in on ‘franchise opportunities’, ‘stay loyal’ to their national sides, or maybe burn out, trying to do the lot. Heads are being turned, by the numbers, the dancing girls and the dosh. It’s baseballification-plus, with different-level money.

We’re all different and all the same: rubbing shoulders, raising a holler. Being part of the tribe. It’s magic; it’s scary; it’s dumb; it’s wonderful. We all do it, and we sportsfolks do it compulsively. We ‘go ballistic’. It may even be a necessary part of the congenital daft-punkism that drives all games and supporters: essential to the energy and the craic. (And by the way surely something in that fervour drives performance – maybe as much as the eight zillion hours of practice?) I love the crazy difference between Evertonians and Glamorgan Travellers. I love that we both lose ourselves and yet we also have the power. Because we are the crowds.

Pic from Danehouse/Getty Images.

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

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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.