Posts Tagged ‘European qualification’


Success breeds contempt

Football fans are a fickle bunch at the best of times.

Individually and collectively, we are all as biased, reactionary and single-minded as each other.

There is however one factor which increasingly divides today’s fans, at least in my mind, and that is success.

I recently read a book celebrating Alex Ferguson’s 25 years at Old Trafford written by Will Tidey, a journalist and United fan who was eight (if I remember correctly) when Sir Alex took over.

It struck me that Will’s team had been so successful during such a formative stage that it would undoubtedly have informed his entire experience of life as a youngster and so on into the rest of his life.

Key points of his adolescence would be marked by Premier League success, or Champions League glory, a Cantona chip or a Mark Hughes volley.

I compared it to how I had found supporting Everton from about 1993 onwards, with three stand-out seasons amidst tedious years of mediocrity and/ or failure all I had to cling to in the way of glory.

The ‘three stand-out seasons’ I refer to are the successful FA Cup run in 1995, finishing fourth in 2005, and making the FA Cup Final in 2009, and they represent the pinnacle of (but by no means the only) achievement for Everton in my lifetime.

I began to wonder how the huge difference between the success of mine and Will’s club would manifest itself in our attitudes towards football and our approaches to life in general, our expectations – even our journalism: could the cynical tone with which I give form to my thoughts be merely laced with the hereditary bitterness of the Blue?

It made me re-examine my expectations, understanding all too clearly that tales such as Will’s,  factual as they may be, appear to me as works of fanciful fiction such is their relation to the current expectations at Goodison Park.

Realistically the gulf is now insurmountable; the capitalisation of football has stacked the odds so far against ‘poor’ clubs that the competitive element is virtually non-existent.

In a time when football is afflicted with an insatiable hunger for accountability and blame, and with fervour for the instant gratification of hope and investment, I began to think of what would constitute pride for your average fan now that nobody really expects to win.

I find myself in the paradoxical position of bemoaning the lack of substantial investment which would allow Everton to seriously compete whilst simultaneously acknowledging that this may represent the death of the club as I know and love it.

Everton’s new signing Darren Gibson is a case in point.

When we finished fourth, or even the seasons we consistently finished in the top  eight, bringing in a player like Gibson would have been curious to say the least, depressing more accurately.

But to hold a similar view now would be to deny the clear changes in circumstances that have taken grip of the club, and to live in the (albeit recent) past.

And that is precisely my point: these endlessly vocal Blackburn protestors, the Arsenal fans calling for Wenger’s head, Everton’s Blue Union, Chelsea supporters ringing in to phone-in after phone-in baying for yet another managers blood – in short, these representatives of the modern culture of blame in the ruthless pursuit of glory, are all short-sighted, or rather blind-sighted,  consumed by photographic recollections of  past success: imagistic, unrealistic triumph.

Which brings me back to Will who sat in the stands for years and saw trophy after trophy arrive, as expected, year on year, and he struck me as one of the select few of the final lucky ones, the last fans to taste victory in its pure form, earned and deserved, before the money sullied and cheapened everything.

And I looked I suppose more objectively at the signing of Gibson, and at his debut at Aston Villa, to see how this scanned with my new-found realism.

The added impetus to pick an incisive pass, and sense of urgency in attack was a breath of fresh in consideration of the tediously fruitless passing-for-the-sake-of-passing we have exhibited of late; his through-ball for Tim Cahill a great sign of potential.

But am I really saying that in the age of corporate football, and quivering in the shadow of Chelsea and Manchester City’s respective billionaires, I am content with a half-decent performance from another club’s bit-part player who arrived at a knock-down price?

Yes, I suppose I am, in the same way that I am content with any little whisper of good news that may blow past Goodison from time to time.

The issue for me is expectation, and like I said, having grown up on a diet of relegation and mid-table obscurity, though my hunger for success is magnified, it is crucially focused into more realistic goals, all veritable indications of ‘success’ in my own terms.

Like bringing through an exciting young player, or having a manager to be proud of, or beating Liverpool, or winning a penalty shoot-out, or simply putting together a good run of form, or making a decent signing,

As I’ve already said, money has moved the goalposts so far for so many that success in terms of winning trophies is realistically only possible for the risk-assessed chosen few.

So I refuse to allow success to be the definitive, divisive factor it has become; success in British football relates to little more than positive reinforcement for those who need it least, a cheapened crowning glory to reinforce the divide.

Because when you think about it, Alex Ferguson is just one man, exceptional without doubt, but no more immortal than the rest of us, and though his legacy will commit the considerable achievements of his career to the permanence of football history, one day his side will fall as all great sides do, and the same for Manchester City, and even Barcelona and so on.

Maybe the bubble will burst and the wave will break, and football will come full circle again, revert to type and rebuild its reputation from scratch – well, we can only hope.

But then again, paraphrasing perhaps the most lovable champion of the underdog, maybe this time next year, we’ll all be millionaires.

By Chris Smith