Ten things I hate about football (Part One)

It’s a great game, football.

From my view it’s THE great game, though cricket, proper Test cricket, runs a close second in a league table of sporting passions.

How can anyone remain unmoved by the heart-pounding excitement, the last-minute goals, the balletic skills, the blood and thunder, the thud and blunder of the beautiful game? The beauty is in the simplicity: outscoring the opposition makes you the better team, on that day at least.

Increasingly, however, elite-level football is finding ways to make a pig’s ear of a silk purse.

The latest international break, which I reckon means we have endured five fallow weeks already this season after only 10 rounds of Premier League fixtures, has allowed time to reflect on what really gets my goat.

Most of the ire is directed at recent developments, a trend that suggests change is not synonymous with progress. So here they are, the first five of 10 things I hate about football. Those who know me, even tangentially, will be unsurprised I’m chuntering like a grumpy old man even before kick-off.

Number One:

As soon as the players head back to the dressing rooms after an energetic warm-up, a veritable deluge soaks the grass.

Why? Or, to put it another way, WTF?

The protagonists have presumably chosen a stud-length most suited to the surface they have just tested. What a brilliant idea, altering it with the match only minutes away. To raise the probability of players losing their balance (witness Barca v NUFC last season), the deluge is repeated at half-time. Premier League pitches are today usually a blend of turf and plastic, which has all but eliminated the spectacular divots that were once commonplace. Check a video of the 1970 FA Cup final for evidence. Or any match in any season at the old Baseball Ground from November onwards.

So, divots are essentially consigned to history. Hurrah! That doesn’t explain the obsession with soaking the surface. My best guess is that a wet pitch allows the goalscorer to indulge in an elongated double-knee slide without risk of doing an ACL. Such celebrations are tosh. Stop this waste of water right now. Bring back the gentlemanly brief handshake or, if you must, go wild and slap the hero heartily on the back.

Number Two:

To quote James Taylor, “I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain . . . ”

Having with luck banished the artificial rain, let’s ditch the absurd flames that are propelled skywards, seemingly before every Premier League kick-off. When the players emerge from the tunnel and line-up for the officially approved preliminaries, half-a-dozen hefty boxes packed with flammable gas are dragged onto the pitch. Are the pyrotechnics designed to “add to the atmosphere” in other than the physical sense? If so, they are a damp squib. The Premier League’s green credentials are literally incinerated by these pointless rituals.

A waste of time and space is bad enough. It becomes far worse if you are a veteran of armed conflict, witnessing this dire spectacle at the match closest to Remembrance Day. Could anything be a less fitting accompaniment to the ceremonial silence? Some of the servicemen and servicewomen who take part in the tributes to the fallen are probably all too familiar with the damage flames can do.

Ban the pyrotechnics from Premier League grounds, in early November at least. And if our lords and Masters (geddit) say no and insist on wasting fossil fuels throughout the rest of the season, the musical soundtrack has to be Fire, that groovy track from 1968 by The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. Dig that cool Hammond organ, man. It was undoubtedly the finest hour of Vincent Rodney Cheesman aka Vince Crane.

Number Three:

Finally, the match begins, though not as it did in the good old days. When I were a lad, the half-way line separated the teams; 11 players to the left of it, 11 to the right. On the referee’s whistle, the ball had to be kicked forward one full circumference or more. The opponents were allowed no nearer than the perimeter of the centre circle (what on earth would Chelsea’s prima donnas think?!) until the ball was in motion.

In 2016 the law was changed. Although encroachment by opponents is still banned, the player kicking off can stand in their half and, even worse, kick the ball towards his own keeper rather than forwards. No wonder so much play today resembles the aimless wanderings of a cast of crabs intoxicated by putrid kelp.

And there’s more. If an opponent shows the temerity to pursue the back pass, he will find his path blocked by one or more players from the team in possession, who blatantly obstruct his run, grab his shirt or otherwise commit a foul. Those dirty blockers have no intention of playing the ball; their only pathetic ambition is to prevent an opponent from doing so. The day a referee (more on them later) penalises that offence, I’ll believe in an interventionist god.

The prospect of a laughable own goal being scored direct from the kick-off was eliminated at the same time the backwards kick-off was approved. If the ball did enter the net of the team kicking off, without touching a second player, a corner would be awarded to their opponents. Who said the game’s regulators were not killjoys?

Number Four:

Good riddance to some aspects of Seventies football in England, such as the reckless tackle from behind that could end a player’s season or sometimes his career.

What has been the unforeseen consequence, however, when a defender is determined to usher the ball out of play for a goal kick or throw to his side? Again, he has no intention of being directly involved in the play. He is simply hell bent on stopping his opponent. knowing the days are long gone of responding to such tactics with a hefty boot to the posterior. If the attacking player does manage with nimble footwork to jink within touching distance of the ball, what happens? Yes, the defender pushes him in the back, often with both hands, sending him head first into the hi-tech advertising hoardings. Tell me why this is not a foul, Mr Howard Melton Webb MBE.

Number Five:

Keepers were banned from handling the ball if it was deliberately passed to them (via a boot or a throw-in) 34 years ago. The game’s regulators wanted to reduce timewasting. A noble idea, I’m sure you agree. I foolishly hoped outfield players would be discouraged from continually passing the ball back whence it came. No such luck. In many games, the player with the most touches is the No1. Call me old fashioned . . . but I go to football matches to see moments of skill I never dreamed were possible. Breathtaking full-length saves, yes. Fancy footwork by the custodian, no.

In my day, you ended up in goal if your lower limbs were lacking such basic requirements as speed and balance. If you had “an educated left foot”, you were almost bound to be a midfield schemer. A player with vision would be an inside forward (a No10 in today’s parlance). The speedster could go on the wing, either in attack or defence. If you were tall, agile, brave, foolhardy even, then you were going in nets.

The job description does not include an ability to demonstrate a Cruyff turn. Neither should it; except that your cowardly teammates constantly pass the buck when under pressure, kicking the ball back to the keeper instead of accepting the sporting challenge of retaining possession themselves by using their innate ability.

This can, admittedly, lead to a comedic outcome if the keeper overplays his hand, such as when Mark Flekken believed Big Nick Woltemade was slower than slow in the Champions League tie at the BayArena last December. When BNW took the ball off the keeper’s toe and was clattered, Anthony Gordon stepped up to drill home the penalty kick.

That incident was, in the great scheme of things, an oasis of happiness amid a desert of dire back passing, however. The ball-playing keeper has become a get-out-of-jail-free card for teammates who lack the will or skill to take the initiative.

While we’re at it, is there any way of preventing the tippy-tappy nonsense that involves sideways and backwards passes in a team’s defensive penalty area? At the risk of channelling my inner Jack Charlton, get the ball up the bloody pitch! You might just score . . .

Grateful thanks if you’re still reading. Part two is likely to include referees, fixture lists, television and financial chicanery.

You’re welcome.