The Italian Job

D-Day for football downunder approaches.

A second chance for the A-League to climb to the top of Asian club football, after Adelaide United fell short in 2008. By no means a straightforward shot at glory, as the Western Sydney Wanderers face off with Saudi Arabia’s expensively assembled Al Hilal in the second leg of the Asian Champions League (ACL) final.

Not an encounter for the faint of heart, although the Wanderers have overcome stiffer opposition along the way, having beaten last year’s ACL champions Guangzhou Evegrande in the quarters, prior to knocking out last year’s ACL final runners-up FC Seoul.

After winning the first leg 1-0, going the distance in Saudi Arabia would be a phenomenal shot in the vein for Australian football. After all a young and inexperienced national team still struggles to find its way under Ange Postecoglou (Ange), as Socceroos fans look warily towards the Asian Cup to be hosted in Australia early next year.

Indeed Germany 2006 seems very far away, as Australia wakes up to the fact that it had no part in the ‘finishing’ of the golden generation that did the nation so proud during that world cup.

The journey for football downunder has been chequered since, with many uncertain of not just the Socceroos but also the quality of the A-League itself. It is still widely considered to lag behind Japan and Korea’s leagues, and lacks the spending power of many clubs in the Gulf and China (Guangzhou’s manager Marcello Lippi is the world’s third highest paid manager after Guardiola and Mourinho, on $14 million a year).

However the baby ten year old league is in my view improving in quality with each passing season, with clubs focused on passing the ball across the grass rather than hoofing it high towards the striker.

Unlike his snooty foreign predecessors, Socceroos coach Ange has not held back from picking good players from the A-league, and I think English journeyman striker Paul Ifill summed it up best a few seasons back when he described the Australian league as a competition that was ‘still finding its feet’, capable of world class football as well as some very ordinary stuff.

The passion for the tournament has dramatically increased, and has been helped in no small way by the birth of the West Sydney Wanderers a couple of years back. How ironic then, that the youngest club in the youngest ACL top division is but 90 minutes away from being crowned kings of Asia? An irony that is only eclipsed by an even greater irony, which is how the Wanderers have set out their stall in Asia.

At the start of their debut season, their manager Tony ‘Poppa’ Popovic declared that he wanted the side to play ‘at a high tempo’. I squirmed upon reading this, but it was somewhat understandable that Poppa wanted to play the English way, given the years he spent at Crystal Palace. This brand of gung ho football actually went on to serve his side well as they ended their maiden season top of the table.

Yet what we have seen from the Wanderers in Asia has been a complete surprise, and one tongue in cheek description of the their playing style could be: ‘Crystal catenaccio’. My friends confirmed to me that during the knock-out ties against Guangzhou and FC Seoul, the Wanderers just sat back and soaked up the pressure, retaining an absolute minimum of possession before seizing up the couple of chances that fell their way.

The first leg of the final at Parramatta stadium last Saturday was no different. For the whole of the first half the Wanderers were on the back foot, as they weathered attack after attack from the Saudi side that were clearly made up of faster and more technically gifted players.

Countless waves of pressure from Al Hilal were repelled, with Poppa setting his team into two tight banks of four, with the two strikers also closing down the spaces and barely shirking from defensive duties with not a single shot on the Saudi goal the whole half. Yet Pirtek stadium was filled to the brim, and the diehard Wanderers supporters never lost hope and belief as they sang relentlessly in support of their heroes.

This was devotion of the highest class, especially when one considers that most of the opening 45 minutes consisted of seeing ten bottoms in black shorts swaying from left to right, as the Wanderers had their work cut out foiling the Saudi build-up play. Things were not much different in the opening minutes of the second half, until Poppa sent on Tomi Juric to a deafening applause.

Hardly had the striker taken the field that the clinical Sydneysiders suddenly put their conserved energy into building a couple of attacks. The first cross in the box found a lunging Juric, who toe poked the ball between the legs of the bewildered Saudi keeper.

As the full house stadium erupted like a powder keg, I shook my head in disbelief, all the while jumping up and down like a nutter as I gave the bird to the gathered visiting fans who stood across from us. And it was then that I realised that the Wanderers were not merely a spirited team but also a tactical one.

How often did Muhammed Ali employ the same technique in boxing, floating like a butterfly and then stinging like a bee? Going round after round weathering countless punches before unleashing all of his saved energy late on in the fight with a couple of killer blows?

And I say ‘couple’ because the Wanderers so nearly made it 2-0, when Tomi Juric went on a run and unleashed a daisy-cutter that crashed against the post. As the final whistle was blown many rued what could have been a greater margin of advantage, but what was most heartening of all was the way the Wanderers had performed during the game, never losing their nerve and sticking to plan.

The Saudis had tried late on too, with veteran ‘keeper Ante Covic foiling them twice when he sprinted splendidly off his line to block two attempts, and centre-back Topor-Stanley giving an absolutely immense performance throughout the whole 90 minutes, marshalling his back line with such composure that he must have ended the game with clean shorts.

Not since the days of Helenio Herrera at Inter Milan and Jose Mourinho at both Inter Milan and Chelsea has the football world witnessed such an effective display of ‘catenaccio’. The Wanderers put their physical strength to good use too, often pinging the Saudis off the ball with their pie arses of steel, with Santalab in particular putting in a tigerish shift in the centre of the park, which led him to dislocate his shoulder (and then continue playing).

And now onto the King Fahd stadium tomorrow, with a most incredible ending to a fairy tale run in sight. It will be mind over matter for the Wanderers, who have already overcome hostile environments in Korea and China to secure progression in the tournament.

I am not a great fan of catenaccio, but being a completely biased fan of Australian football I applaud Poppa for choosing a means that will certainly justify the end. The meaning of a victory tomorrow is not lost on any supporter of Australian football, and every club in the country will forget local rivalries as they cheer on the A-league side.

It will be a fascinating encounter, and more finely poised than most people think. Al Hilal are expected to win by a high margin. And although the Saudis play pretty, they certainly need to discover their scoring boots. The Wanderers on the other hand will need all of their Italian siege discipline, and will certainly resume their two banks of four, as they play to frustrate until the opening presents itself. And it will present itself.

Australia expects. I believe that the Wanderers can do it.

Love Story

Another La Liga round, another Real win. Not just any win, as it happens, since they overcame Barca 3-1 despite going a goal down early on in the piece. The combined worth of Madrid’s first team must run into hundreds of millions (with only Casillas a product of their youth system), so it's somehow fitting that they’re shooting the lights out on the field. After all there’s few things more embarrassing than a publically known waste of a mountain of money (just ask QPR's owners).

 

In recent years the Clásico has risen in prominence to become the world’s biggest clash in club football. A mere look at Real Madrid reveals a mouth-watering array of talent drawn from the English Premier League, German Bundesliga and French Ligue 1 (no chance of snatching up any Italian Serie A talent these days, what with PSG constantly sniffing around it).

 

There can be few games more enticing than the clash between the Spanish giants, who had in recent years rendered La Liga the equivalent of a boring two-horse race reminiscent of recent Scottish Premier League seasons. Thankfully Atletico Madrid somehow found the cojones to upset the apple cart last season, before their wonderful team ended up being picked apart. The Clásico is an encounter that never disappoints, and this latest clash was no different. Slick passing and sublime goals, a hotly contested refereeing decision and plenty of swagger and skill all over the pitch.

 

Indeed there wasn’t much wrong with the game except that it lacked a pinch of its usual controversy. Never mind Cristiano Ronaldo’s trademark foppish goal celebration which has come to be expected. There he was, after jinking his penalty kick past Bravo, wheeling away to engage in a pathetic pirouette before screaming with slightly parted arms. Best player in the world though he may be, he remains a juvenile high schooler who totally fancies himself. So wouldn’t it have been fitting if a certain someone had crept up behind the Portuguese and taken a big wet bite out of his  shoulder?!

 

 

 

 

But before we go there let’s revisit heavy metal legend John Michael ‘Ozzy’ Osbourne's chequered past. After signing a record deal with CBS his wife and agent Sharon suggested that he take two doves with him into their offices, to charm the executives who were not overly keen on him. Gasps of wonder were heard from the suited corporate types when he walked towards them and whisked a dove from his pocket.

 

Ozzy held up the bird and drew it closely towards his face. And as the executives surrounding him smiled on warmly, he proceeded to put the bird’s head in his mouth and bite it off.

 

The rest, as they say, is history. It was an act so vile that the media railed against it all over the world. It was an act so vile that it propelled Ozzy into superstardom, as his career roared skywards like a rocket.

 

For there is no such thing as bad publicity.

 

 

 

 

A bite of Bakkal, a hickie for Ivanovic and a taste of Chiellini have probably left Luis Suarez in little doubt of this. No other player’s misdemeanours on the pitch have attracted as much attention in recent years, with the pint-sized Uruguayan constantly finding himself in the dock of public opinion, and a household name as a result. And he was barely about to make his return with Barcelona against Real Madrid, that already the media was choked with stories about his previous misdeeds, with apologists and accusers emerging from the shadows to give their two bobs’ worth about the infamous handball, biting and that racial slur.

 

Seriously how tedious can some journalists get, to still be stirring the same soup months later? Although I guess it’s better than reporting the countless ‘tweets’ of navel-gazing planks like QPR players Joey Barton and Rio Ferdinand. I’m not seeking to condone any acts of violence or denigration committed by Luis Suarez. But hasn’t the whole moral crusade against him already run its course?

 

The way people carry on about it, you’d think Luis was the first player to ever engage in unsporting conduct on the pitch. Never mind Maradona’s handballs, or that Cantona half killed a Crystal Palace fan during his pomp at Manchester United. Or that Roy Keane took out a player’s knee intentionally and then even had the gall to gloat about it in his autobiography (gosh that’s two Manchester United players isn’t it?)

 

Like I said, I’m not trying to defend anything bad that Suarez has done. Nor am I objecting to the hefty penalties he has received, and which were in my view fully deserved.

 

 

 

 

But it is funny how we all want great players to leave it all on the pitch, then squeal in protest whenever a bit of their passion boils over. It’s easy to slam players whenever the red mist descends on them, yet where does the average fan think an unflinching will to win comes from? A place of inner peace and serenity? Or a cushy, comfortable background?

Let’s face it, most South American footballers lead pretty crap lives, unless football takes them anywhere better (and that’s often not the case). Suarez may have had it rougher than most, finding himself one of seven kids without a dad, after his father abandoned his family to be raised by a single mother on less than nothing.

Talk about being attention deprived! He was by all accounts an introverted kid brought up on mean streets, with probably only a football for a friend.

They say that some of the best players are pretty useless in training, and England keeper Joe Hart recently confirmed that about Sergio Aguero, his Argentinean team mate at Manchester City. It’s also true that during the constant ‘nature versus nurture’ debates, many of the world’s best sports coaches have often declared that the added few percentiles of match-winning performance cannot be coached, since it only emerges from certain individuals during the 'heat of battle'.

 

 

 

This was certainly true of the young Suarez, whose sheer abundance of talent was such that he even survived a wayward period spent distracted from from the game, in which he almost gave up football at 14. He was only kept on at Nacional because of the previous glimpses of his sheer natural ability. But when he did rediscover his love for the game, he wowed his coaches with his sudden appetite for it and with his renewed will to win.

Because for all the bad headlines he has attracted, many often overlook the fact that Suarez’s life has been one big love story that would make an incredible movie. And we're not just talking ball. His return to Nacional was down to the woman of his dreams, who became a soul mate he could turn to, and who helped him stray from bad company long enough to realise his amazing talent.

 

Sofia Balbi sorted his head out after he had (understandably) flirted with the life of a tearaway. But life, like football, can be cruel. The only person who understood the young Suarez was ripped away from him to rejoin her family in (believe it or not) Barcelona. It was a bitter loss for Suarez, who found himself devastated once more, just like he had been when his father walked out on him.

 

For the young Luis had no means that would allow him to be reunited with her, and all he was left with was a pitch and a ball. Yet so resolved was he to join his heartthrob that he dived headlong once more into his first love, training with such intensity that he was known to weep in the showers after games that his team had won, simply because he had not made it onto the scoresheet.

 

 

 

 

He knew he had to resort to anything to win, because in football - like life - winning is all, and he more reason than most to succeed. Little did Uruguay suspect that the heartbroken dropout from a broken family was on his way to returning the Celeste to the semi finals of a World Cup, which they had not graced for thirty years. He would also proceed to help secure the Copa America for them again, and go on to be their greatest star since Enzo ‘Le Prince’ Francescoli (Zinedine Zidane’s greatest idol).

 

Eventually Luis’s goals secured him a move to Europe. Yet further sacrifices lay ahead as he commenced his European career in the Dutch fields of Groningen (a name so painful to utter it makes one think of Godzilla stuffing cars into his mouth and chewing them whole). He had been reunited with his old flame Sofia, but was also mindful that he had to secure a future with her. This rendered his will to win undiminished, and he resorted to everything to achieve it.

 

He was transferred to Ajax the following season, where he was eventually made captain at the age of 23, and proclaimed heir to Dalglish at Liverpool before he even hit 27. His commitment to the game is unquestioned, as he fights and scraps for every last ball. Shame then, that his obsession with winning at times bubbles over horribly. Perhaps a side-effect of countless years spent retaliating against bully boys twice his size on the mean streets of Salto and Montevideo? Which most likely often got him thrashed afterwards? We may never know.

 

What is certain is that his unbending instinct to fight in any which way is partly what makes him a sheer joy to watch. And his unrelenting will to win makes his absence from the pitch hard to bear for all true lovers of the game. Which is why seeing him step out with the Blaugrana last week felt like his ban had been lifted from the whole football world, and not just from Luis himself!

Watching him play is just a sheer joy. His tenacity is relentless, and work rate second to absolutely no other player I’ve seen. His incredible comebacks from injury and disciplinary bans make a mockery of the term ‘match fitness’. Furthermore the beauty of some of his goals are only eclipsed by the efforts of fellow ‘bad boy’ Zlatan Ibrahimovic.

 

It really is time for the press to move on, for I think that Luis deserves another chance. I am quite convinced that in Spain he will finally find a home away from home, since all South American stars seem to regain composure once they move from a northern European country to a Southern European one.

 

Take Carlos Tevez. Constant tantrums and hare-brained rants to the press during his time in England, yet not a peep of mischief out of him ever since he joined Juventus. Carlitos now looks like the footballer we never thought he was, fully committed to battle for his club and ebullient about everything to do with the bianconeri who are the absolute love of his life. 

 

And I suspect that this will now be the case with Luis and Barcelona. In his recent autobiography he declared how grateful he was to Brendan Rodgers for introducing tiki-taka to Merseyside, since playing the ball on the ground allowed Suarez to get the better of hulking defenders. So he cannot but flourish in the church of pass and move, and wasted no time in providing an assist during his first Clásico, with the delicious pass he served to Neymar who opened the scoring.

 

 

 

 

With Luis on the pitch his team are always in with a chance, and his introduction to a struggling Barcelona side may not have happened at a better time. It is amazing how the greater the penalties thrust upon him for misconduct, the more he returns with a vengeance to remind the world that he’s not just about bad headlines.

 

Which bad headlines, incidentally, have probably done more to enhance his brand and put Uruguay on the map than any strategy the best marketing teams could have dreamed up. Indeed there’s no such thing as bad publicity, and the constant mention of Luis’s omission from the shortlist is already eclipsing the achievements of all of the nominees called up for the ballon d’or.

 

Once more FIFA seem to have forgotten that omitting Luis only serves to further boost his following, as well as heap more fuel on a fire that will consume all before it. Because Luis is all about doing whatever it takes for love, and greater adversity only seems to further boost his resolve. Last Sunday’s defeat to Real Madrid would have rankled greatly with him, and although he might not yet bite anyone, we can soon expect a goal or two in anger.

 

Which is why I don’t envy poor Celta Vigo, having to travel to the Camp Nou this Saturday to take on Suarez and co. Sometimes true love really can hurt. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Balls Versus Bling

 

It seems like yesterday that I drove over to Homebush to watch the A-league All Stars take on the visiting Juventus in a pre-season friendly. I was awestruck by the quality of football displayed by the locally-based players, who had Juventus huffing and puffing throughout the game. The All Stars were in with a real chance of pulling off a convincing upset until the last five minutes.

 

Guiding them was the loveable and passionate Adelaide United manager, the bubbly Josep Gombau, Barcelona’s former youth academy coach. The tiki-taka exhibited by his Australia-based charges was at times breathtaking as they went for the jugular against the Turin giants. As I left the ground at the final whistle, I could not help but hope that Sydney FC might one day take on the Spaniard as their manager.

 

A pinch of sadness was also experienced during the friendly, when Del Piero was substituted to deafening applause. Everyone suspected that it was his last game as an A-league player, and I was straight onto my feet clapping for the little genius whose qualities are so widely appreciated.

 

The sadness was also tinged by a deep regret of what might have been. He had joined Sydney FC two years earlier amid great fanfare, which had left me hoping that the club had put a solid platform in place for pinturicchio’s  moments of sheer magic to be complemented by a winning side. For I had long given up on the Sky Blues getting anything right on the pitch, and not for the last time would they disappoint.

 

 

 

 

Del Piero’s move downunder had hardly been announced, than his long time mate and former Italian star striker Gianluca Vialli told the press that pinturicchio just had to go to Sydney because he would ‘discover a different world, I would say probably a better world’.

"Sydney FC a better world?!", I asked myself. "He’s clearly got no idea about Australian football to be saying that." Sure enough, Del Piero’s new side were to be managed by Ian Crook, a coach I’d never even heard of. It was clear that the Sydney FC hierarchy either knew something no one else did or still had their head straight up in the clouds. It was therefore no surprise when Crook resigned his post after six games due to ill health, and it’s simply unbelievable when you think that in Australia ‘being crook’ is another way of saying that you’re ill!

But Del Piero’s introduction to Australian football was to descend into further low farce. After four losses in six opening games it seemed that all Sydney FC had achieved by recruiting the Italian was to also show the rest of the world what a pile of useless crap they were. Despite having lost a yard of pace, Del Piero’s trickery was the only highlight of the season, but as defeat followed defeat I could not watch the unravelling train crash any longer.

Sydney FC truly are the masters of disaster. And before long they had announced Frank Farina as their manager and also signed up Lucas Neill in a desperate bid to shore up an awful central defence. It was not as if it had ever been a great backline, certainly not since the reliable Simon Colosimo had been inexplicably sold on to Melbourne Heart after Sydney FC had somehow managed to win the league in 2010.

 

 

 

Eventually even Del Piero’s skills could not fan my interest anymore, and people told me that Sydney FC did eventually string some results together before falling off the boil again. When Del Piero announced that he would stay another year (perhaps he found playing amongst such a pack of hapless losers refreshing, or maybe  good ‘depressurisation’ before heading into the final payday of Indian football), I thought: "Surely now they’ll put together a title-winning side for him".

Yet following a much-trumpeted pre-season tour of Europe (one really has to question what the point of this exercise was, when most European sides are trying to win new fans in Asia), Del Piero’s second season was another stop-start calamity, with the club barely creeping into the finals series by somehow placing fifth in the league. They subsequently crashed out of the knockouts, and by then Farina had already been fired after the hardcore hub of Sydney FC supporters known as ‘the Cove’ had turned on him.

At the end of the day there really wasn’t much to show for Sydney FC’s efforts over the previous two seasons except for Del Piero himself. And once again, the club really hadn’t done the sport any favours in a city that is fiercely contested by other more traditional ball sports.

So thank God then, for the creation of that club along the M2.

 

 

 

And we have Australia’s favourite ‘twerker’ Clive Palmer to thank for that, after the loopy mining magnate’s Gold Coast United were chucked out of the A-league following his endless stream of public rants at Football Federation Australia. Suddenly finding themselves a club short, the FFA were quick to seize on the long-bandied idea of starting up an A-league side in Western Sydney.

Ooooh yes, way out west. That spooky, forlorn territory, far away from the sea, choked with bogans and westies. A place where Sydney FC’s illustrious would not be seen dead, never for a moment giving real consideration to keeping their base at Parramatta stadium or Homebush. This snub did little to ease the divide between ‘the west’ and ‘the rest’. And when Sydney FC finally made it to Parramatta stadium for a couple of fixtures to garner some support from the westies, they were met with defiant and deafening chants which called for a new Sydney side to be created.

And with Palmer’s side thrown out, the FFA suddenly needed another side to be able to honour their tv contracts that required ten teams in the top division. So (with characteristic forward planning) they quickly pulled the western Sydney idea out of the back pocket, and shipped in Socceroo veteran Tony ‘Poppa’ Popovic from London with strict orders to create a team in six months.

With only six professional players signed up by the first training session, many doubted that this new team would do anything more than prop up the league table come the end of the year. Yet if ever proof was needed that football is the game of the people, the brand new Western Sydney Wanderers (WSW) were to be it.

 

 

 

After an opening draw and a couple of defeats (including a reverse to Sydney FC) their football started to come together, and from the first the people rallied behind them. Perhaps due to his previous involvement at Sydney FC, Poppa instantly instilled a grass roots philosophy, seeking a quality of person and not just player. He wanted men who could commit to a community and not just a football club, and fight until the finish.
 

And whilst Del Piero hung his head in his hands following yet another defeat, the swiftly boiling cauldron of Parramatta stadium roared on as WSW shot to the top of the league, breaking the Central Coast-Brisbane stranglehold and narrowly missed out on also winning the grand finals in their first year. It was a jaw-dropping fairy tale that sent ripples worldwide, and unbelievable as it was, the much-overlooked and derided population out west were the 12th man that eclipsed the Del Piero headlines.

 

Never has love of the game been transmitted so seamlessly from the supporters to the players. So often you hear of players being very ‘professional’ about their performances, engaging in a bit of neat passing and ‘doing a job’.

 

Not the Wanderers.

 

 

 

In a game that is increasingly technical, they have shown that the spirit is no less important. And whenever they step out on the pitch there is an excited spring to their step. Poppa never makes excuses for their rare reversals and nor should he need to.

For upon the field his Wanderers apparently know no pain or fear or weariness. Theirs is only joy, for no opponent is too great to take on, nor any yard too hard to cover, or any energy meant to be saved. Each game is played as if it’s their first and their last, and rarely has a side been more in the now than them.

They embody a living ecstasy, that of generations of immigrants whose long-shadowed passion for the beautiful game has erupted onto the pitch, rendering their players receptacles of delight. Australia finally has its first great club, a position so nearly claimed in deeds by Melbourne Victory / Brisbane Roar, and in words by Sydney FC’s hierarchy.

WSW are truly about all that renders Australia great, keeping it real at all times, and miles away from the faff and posturing of Sydney FC’s owners and their cronies, who constantly let down the Sky Blue supporters who deserve so much better.

Which fans must have looked on in envy at WSW’s maiden run in the Asian Champions League, a tournament in which Sydney FC never made it through the group stage at both times of asking. Not the Wanderers, who despite their limited resources left the likes of Marcello Lippi in a flap after knocking out his massive-spending Guangzhou Evergrande (who fielded the likes of Gilardino and Diamanti), prior to also knocking out Korean giants and AFC veterans FC Seoul in the semi-finals, and lining up a final against Saudi Arabia’s Al-Hilal.

 

 

 

And to rub salt into the wound, the Wanderers have done it all with a handful of Sydney FC rejects, which included Topor-Stanley, Beauchamp, Bridge, Cole and Santalab!

The delight following their glorious win against FC Seoul was so great that I suspect a hangover was still raging during the Wanderers’ first day 4-1 thrashing at the hands of Melbourne Victory. They will be scrambling to step up for tomorrow’s derby against Sydney FC, whilst on his part new Sky Blues manager Graham Arnold will hope that his side might claw something out of this game, what with three international players returning to the fold.

With the Wanderers having one eye on the Asian Champions League final next week, there has never been a better time to play them, with their defence seemingly over-reliant on Nikolai Topor-Stanley. The big question is whether the Wanderers will show up against Sydney FC, or save their shin-snapping lunges and last ditch tackles for the Saudis a few days later. Personally I have no doubt they'll give the derby as good a go as they can.

What’s certainly true is that the game dowunder has come a long way in such a short space of time, with all this talk about cross-town rivals, and derbies with record-breaking attendances. And this recent mention of 'continental distraction' and Champions League finals also leaves me shaking my head to remind myself that its Australian and not European football we’re talking about.

On the eve of the derby, I find there’s been few local games I’ve awaited with such genuine enthusiasm. And following the departure of Del Piero, this fixture only has any profile because of the incredible achievements of the men from out west.
 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ass Factor

The old timers of the Mediterranean island of Malta fancy themselves a canny bunch. They sit on village square benches or on the parapets outside their local churches. Nothing reaches their attention without them passing judgement on it. Their sundried foreheads crinkle with wisdom as they shake their heads from side to side, and inevitably they’ve always got the same proverb to share about some unfortunate whose luck keeps getting worse.

‘The struggling ass is assaulted by flies…’

We can all point to times in our life when we have been down in the dumps, and when everything seemed to be falling apart around us. It can happen at any given moment, and there’s little that can be done in such times, except to have resolve and stick to your strengths. It’s a moment by moment situation, where every winding blow must be taken with a pinch of salt, in order to bounce back better.

But the first step is ensuring that the head is thinking straight. That is the first step, to reach a place where decisions are taken that are free of emotion and hand-wringing hysteria, a place in which Manchester United now finds itself.

A few defeats early on in the season, and every man and his dog were dismissing them out of hand. A few called for Aloysius (aka Louis) Van Gaal’s head, claiming that he had no idea. Never mind his record, or that his side is a team in transition, desperately seeking to charter its way forward.

Like everything else, football doesn’t wait. No time for building, and no time for losers. Time is money, and everything must happen yesterday if not now.

Hysterical opinion shifts from one day to the next. But the question remains: how quickly can a struggling club transition from a season of disaster to one of success? It’s hard to provide a definite answer, since there are many deciding factors at play. Not least of which is a bit of ass, which can certainly go a long way.

Van Gaal has never coached a side in the Serie A and he would be right to assume that a team like Juventus, that often shows early and imperious form, is generally on its way to the title. But there have been some exceptions to the rule, one of which occurred during the unforgettable, yet oft forgotten, 1998 – 1999 season in the Serie A.

It was a season in which Juventus was derailed by injury to Del Piero and Zidane. Inter’s president Moratti undertook a merry-go-round of four managers (?!!!) which left Inter completely disjointed. All the buzz was about how the league title was finally bound for a city outside Turin or Milan. Film mogul Cecchi Gori had acquired and greatly strengthened Fiorentina, whilst Cragnotti and Tanzi’s respective millions were fuelling Lazio and Parma’s desire to finally get their hands on the famous shield.

Is there anyone else we’re forgetting?

Oh yes, forgive the little oversight of AC Milan.

The summer of 1998 found Il Diavolo in a situation not far removed from that in which the Red Devils of Manchester find themselves now. If United fans think that a seventh placed finish is poor, AC Milan had ended the previous two seasons in eleventh and tenth, finding themselves fortunate to have avoided relegation.

It wasn’t for a want of desire. The 1995 Bosman ruling changed football forever, scrapping the ‘three foreigner rule’. The Milan hierarchy had responded to this by practically buying a first class foreign side, snapping up the stellar Dutch quartet of Kluivert, Reizeger, Davids and Bogarde, French ace Dugarry, German guns Ziege and Lehmann, and Scandinavians Andersson and Nilsen. Swelling the ranks were also other lesser known lights of promise like Patrick Vieira, who barely got two games in the first team before being shipped out to some club in London called Arsenal.

The result of all these stupendous but hasty acquisitions was a magnificent tower of Babel that was completely lost in translation, and which fell apart the moment the season started. Milan were all over the shop, seemingly incapable of stringing two passes together. Somehow returning manager Fabio Capello managed to drag them to the final of the Italian Cup, were they surrendered a two goal advantage in the last ten minutes, with a certain Alessandro Nesta ironically scoring the winning goal for the Romans.

Following this disastrous season all of the Dutchmen had flown to the more successful pastures of Van Gaal’s Barca and Lippi’s Juve, and Dugarry and the two Scandinavians also vanished. Capello dutifully took a bow and fell on his sword, leaving AC Milan to look closer to home to restore their fortunes. Their eye immediately fell on their third placed next door neighbours: the overachieving Udinese.

The Friulani’s wily manager Alberto Zaccheroni was snapped up, together with their bomber Oliver Bierhoff (a complete unknown until his super-sub appearance in the Euro '96 final), as well as right winger Tomas Helveg. The only other additions of note were the lumberous Bruno N'Gotty (who only lasted a season) and one Andres Guglielminpietro, who nicknamed himself 'Guly' in an effort to endear himself to Milan fans, but who was immediately forgotten until he started chipping in with important goals.

It was hardly stuff to set the pulses racing, but the club was clearly set on a more pragmatic approach. Somehow I felt a bit excited about the whole thing, but not for the last time was I completely alone. This only strengthened my resolve, and whilst on holiday in Rimini I stepped into a sports shop to buy Milan’s latest strip. As he handed me the shirt the Italian shop owner looked appalled, and quietly warned me: ‘Milan has big problems’.

But they made a promising start, beating Bologna in the opening fixture and Salernitana away. Then came the first six pointer against Trapattoni’s white hot Viola, where Milan were shredded by Batistuta and co., humiliated 3-1 at home.  It was a defeat so disheartening that the blame was immediately laid on the shoulders of poor Jens Lehmann in goal, who was dropped from the side and immediately shipped back to the Ruhr valley in the January transfer window.

Every man and his dog slammed Milan after this last outing, with many deriding Zac’s unconventional 3-4-3 system.  Van Gaal would shake his head with a smile upon hearing this, for the number of times his 3-5-2 model has been rubbished at the start of this season. 

Yet instead of panicking, Zac started looking for other bodies in his team who could better fit his philosophy, placing his faith in willing youngsters like Abbiati, Ambrosini and Coco. Parallels with this approach can also be found at Van Gaal's United, with the Dutchman wasting no time in promoting the fresh faced likes of Blackett, McNair and Wilson into the first team.

A rejuvenated Milan immediately bounced back in their next tie away to Venezia, then received another kick in the teeth when they lost to Cagliari. Yet things further steadied when senior players like Weah, Leonardo and Albertini returned from injury to bolster the first team.

The returning stars played out of their skin, but each step forward seemed to be met with another slipup. Two stirring victories against Roma and Lazio were soon forgotten when Milan received a literal hiding 4-0 away to Parma. Once more an embarrassing defeat did not bring a reduction in focus. Zac’s Milan immediately bounced back in the following game against Udinese, which was the start of an unbeaten run that was as unlikely as it was surprising.

As the season wore on, Milan received another shot in the vein when midfield mastermind Boban also returned from injury, providing Zac with added quality in midfield. The then recently acquired Maurizio Ganz (who had crossed town from Inter Milan) also chipped in with some vital goals, none more crucial than the one in the closing stages of the season against Sampdoria.

The Genoan club had fallen on hard times, and needed at least a point to keep their top flight status alive. Yet Milan were now in with a chance for the title, racing neck and neck with Lazio, Parma and Fiorentina in a mad scramble towards the finish line. At the end of regular time the score was tied at 2-2, and as Sampdoria fell back to defend the draw the result appeared a foregone conclusion.

Yet in the fourth minute of added time a cross fell to Ganz whose piledriver was deflected off the backside of defender Castellini before finding its way into the net. Milan had got the win they had coveted with the last kick of the game! The rossoneri faithful were in ecstasy.

‘CULO!’ screamed the headlines across Italy the following day, but Milan did not rue their butt luck. Ahead of them stood the daunting prospect of Juventus, plus two matches against Empoli and Perugia. Yet Milan’s lucky ass had also helped to galvanise them and all three remaining obstacles were overcome with a nail-biting finish, with the title secured courtesy of a great save by Abbiati.

Results elsewhere had also gone the rossoneri’s way, and Serie A fans worldwide stared at their screens in disbelief as the scudetto ended up in Milan after all. At the end of the game Paolo Maldini was in tears, saying that it was the most beautiful league title he had won to date, given that it had been so unexpected.

The moral of the story is as simple as it is crude. It is foolhardy to kick a big club when it’s down, for you never know when it might spring back to its feet. Although Manchester United were recently on the canvas, they now find themselves back in the top four, a fact that most pundits are unable to get their head around.

Yet with no European distraction and a seasoned hand on the wheel, it is not so hard to see Manchester United as title contenders. If your Van Persies and Rooneys keep on firing and the likes of McNair and Shaw step up, a platform could be created for players returning from injury and recently acquired world stars to take United to places previously unimagined.

It will take all of their battling qualities to restore wounded pride, coupled with all of Van Gaal’s famous bull-headedness. Each game will be treated like a final, with full advantage taken of the international break to prepare for the impending clash away to West Brom.

And despite the inevitable reverses that still lurk ahead in the league, a little bit of culo should always be hoped for, and certainly never excluded.