The Beautiful Game

I love football. I always have. From the day I started school, every break and lunchtime for the first eight years I would be playing in the playground. If ever there were a concern that there would not be a ball at school, I would borrow my Mum’s string shopping bag (picture a multi-coloured giant string vest) and take one in. Luckily, in those days at least, I didn’t have to play the ‘my ball, so I’ll be captain’ card. I can say with a degree of confidence that I was one of two to three players who could put a claim down to being the second best player in our year. Whilst I could never even dream of being picked first as the best player, an accolade that went to James/ Jim Donnelly, who was so far ahead of us by the age of seven (I am to this day surprised he never broke into professional football and he was a left-footed midfield player, oh how England needed one of those for my generation), I would normally end up the second choice and if I wasn’t picked second, it’s my ball, I’ll go where I like.

I liked to see myself as a good solid centre back. I tried to model myself on Billy Bonds and Alvin Martin, players that in all this times I saw them live, and with Alvin in particular, I saw many times, they could never be accused of not putting in 100% effort on every single game. Players who would be willing to put every part of their body on the line, players that lead us not just by their formal authority (both being rightly honoured with the role club captain of West Ham). As I never had the natural skill and ability of Jim, for a few years at least, in my age bracket, I did make it quite difficult to get past me and I had a fairly long kick on me as well. As the general coaching I got in those days mostly revolved around ‘give it a good hoof up the pitch son!’ and Jim having such speed and skill that he would run into the space knowing when I would do this, he made a lot of my hoofing seem like skilful application of the counter-attack.

When I started my secondary school from the age of 12 upwards, I slowly started that rocky road to self-destruction (or at least extreme unfitness) of smoking, drinking and other ‘fruits of the devil’, which led to my fitness declining and my belly expanding. Still, even then I didn’t lose my love for the game but now switched my focus from playing to watching. Dad’s early work of moving me from a Liverpool supporter (yes, I know. In my defence I was young and they were head and shoulders above everyone else) to a fully-fledged ‘Hammer’ had worked a treat and there were a few years where we missed very few home games. To this day, I have never experienced anything quite as exhilarating as a fully charged Boleyn ground singing as one ‘Come On You Irons’ and I cannot put into words the physiological sensation of twenty five thousand plus people singing in unison where the love, passion, anger and drive momentarily joins us together as one synergetic force. I genuinely feel sorry for anyone who has never experienced this as for me it would be one of my seven emotionally triggered wonders of the world. So, as I said, I love football, and nothing upsets me more when a story comes along that that gives credence and credibility to some of the lazy generalisations that are held by some about this beautiful game. Currently there are three.

Firstly, this week we have the story of Dan (BBC News web-site)/ David (Guardian) Ware, the ‘white van driver’ from Rochester, whose front of house was tweeted by Emily Thornberry with Transit in the drive and 3 St George’s flags tied to the drainpipe. It was an amazing own goal of Thornberry to grasp defeat and the majority of the headline away from the actual result. The narrative had shifted from Tory disaster to Labour implode in just over twenty-four hours. By Friday Mr Ware was an individual that was moving Ed Miliband to say as he reflected on the picture ‘what goes through my mind is respect. There is nothing unusual or odd, as her tweet implied about having England flags in your window’. As we know, Mr Ware donned his house with these flags for this year's World Cup. So all was looking good with the world. A football story, where the only negative stereotypes seemed to come from the taker of the original photo. However, jump forward twenty-four hours and Mr Ware has progressed from a hard working, working class hero that every political party courting to a ‘Sun reading, cage-fighting West Ham supporter’.

Then we have the on-going case of Ched Evans, who in 2011 was charged and found guilty of rape. It is a story where over the past two-to-three weeks the narrative has changed and developed until it becomes something all together different to its original case. My observations here are nothing to do with the actual case. One of the problems with how this story has developed is that it is easy to lose focus on the original events and I cannot begin to imagine what the life of the victim and her friends and family has been like these past few years and in the past few weeks since Mr Evans has been released. It has also grown into a story that makes us all collectively and individually question our values and beliefs around areas such as rehabilitation of offenders and the presumption of guilt V’s innocence. In this point in particular, Evan’s lawyers compared the cases of The Guildford Four and The Birmingham Six to his client, a view previously touched upon by Michael Portillo on This Week a couple of weeks ago (this in itself is such a provocative comparison that I will return to it in a future blog). However, it was a question and following conversation on Question Time on 13th November and indeed on different show on TalkSport that week where the part of Mr Evans being a professional footballer who had represented his country (Wales) was the focus of the conversation. Should a footballer that is convicted of rape be allowed to return to the game? Would it be different if his job were a welder, refuge collector, an accountant or shop assistant? From both the Question Time audience (less surprising) to TalkSport audience (more surprising), there was a majority view that the part of him being a footballer either was the crux of the matter or at least major influencer and was key to people saying he should not be allowed back. The rules and personal beliefs of rehabilitation were voided in this case due both to the seriousness of the crime and Mr Evan’s subsequent refusal to accept responsibilities for his crime by continually stating his innocence (hence the comparisons to Guildford and Birmingham). It fuelled a perception voiced by some in these programmes that professional footballers are overpaid, arrogant and ill-educated who should not be judged by the same rules and criteria that other members of society are judged by.

Finally, we have the on-going saga of FIFA, Russia, Qatar, successful bids for the 2018 & 2022 World Cups and the allegations of bribery and corruption. It seems that however this story will resolve itself, if indeed it ever does, the worlds leading body of my beloved game with come out with its (already dubious) reputation in shatters and possibly with some irreparable damage and criminal charges

So, we have a game that is run by criminals, played by Prima Donnas and supported by hooligans?

One of footballs greatest challenges, particularly in this country, is that it is a victim of its own success. The amount of money that TV rights alone generate can make the sport and its participants seem so out of touch with reality that it can be difficult to have any empathy. And yet it is a sport that to me has become a foundation of bringing three generations of family together, has triggered some of the broadest range of emotions I have experienced and has been the catalyst to conversations with strangers that went on to become some of the most important relationships in various times of my life.

You show me corruption in the game and I’ll show you the good football has done throughout the world. You show me Prima Donnas and I’ll show you role models that I would be proud for my children to look up to and follow. You show me hooligans (who else hears Bill Hicks when you say this word) and I’ll show families and good decent people who for 90 minutes a week manage to put whatever troubles and concerns they have to one side and join a community which to me cannot be beaten or tarnished despite the best efforts and behaviours of such a small percentage of the football family. It really is a beautiful game.