CCFC 0 v 3 EVERTON

Some years ago as I was leaving the office I walked past a chap sitting in reception, a salesman with an open briefcase poring over catalogues with a colleague. He looked up distractedly but with a natural geniality and a familiarity that I couldn’t immediately place. It was only later that my colleague confirmed that he was listening to a sales pitch for industrial footwear from my childhood hero Brian Clarke. 

It’s impossible to contemplate any circumstances beyond extreme financial impropriety or cursed bad luck in which any member of The Bluebirds’ current squad would need to consider a second career to see them through to retirement. This isn’t necessarily a good thing. 

The transition to life outside the cosseted world of professional football has been a struggle for some. There have been many high profile falls from grace - household names like Paul Gascoigne, Stan Colleymore and Diego Maradona, cut adrift, lacking focus, beset by mental health problems and pilloried by an unsympathetic small-minded popular press. It’s sobering to read that there are currently almost 150 ex-professional footballers in prison, some 120 of them held for drugs offences. 

Education prior to and during players’ short career is the principal factor in determining positive outcomes. Clubs have addressed this over recent years and many players have adapted, reclaimed their place in society and made a significant contribution. 

I read recently that Everton and Wales midfield playmaker Barry Horne, a former chairman of the PFA and some time BBC Wales pundit hosts a chat show on Merseyside’s Radio City and has a column in the Liverpool Echo. And following his graduation from the University of Liverpool with a first class degree in Chemistry he also holds down a full time job as chemistry and physics teacher at Kings in Chester which has appointed him director of football at a school where they clearly take sport very seriously.

Pretty impressive, but few ex-players are ever likely to match the achievements of George Weah. Spotted by Arsene Wenger when a teenager, Weah signed for Monaco for £12,000. His distinguished career culminated with the Ballon D’or in 1995; he was also awarded the extravagantly titled ‘African Player of the Century’. On retirement he became a UN goodwill ambassador, produced a music CD to support programmes for African children and returned to Liberia to persuade former child soldiers to surrender their weapons. Completing his education in the US he obtained his Masters Degree before running successfully for President of Liberia in 2015. 

Weah and Horne may be exceptions but it’s surprising how few ex-pros remain in the game. Through the wonders of the interweb via pinchofsalt.org and pulltheotheroneitsgotbellson.com I’ve been able to track down a number of interesting post-footie careers, some inspiring, some hum-drum, others quite frankly baffling. And not all verifiable.

• Peter Beardsley. The former England midfielder retired from the game with lowly Hartlepool and become the face of Armitage Shanks sanitary hardware bathroom solutions.

• Ken Monkou. The Chelsea and Southampton defender bought a pancake shop in his home town of Delft in the Netherlands.

• Phillipe Albert runs a fruit and veg business in Belgium.

• Ramon Vega. Never the most popular of players during his four years at White Hart Lane, Vega is a now a very successful merchant banker, which many Spurs fans see as deeply ironic (see Cockney rhyming slang).

• Lee Bowyer runs a carp fishing lake in rural France.

• Julian Dicks. The Former West Ham defensive enforcer retrained as a pedicurist and runs a chain of salons called ‘Hard As Nails’. Julian also has a City and Guilds Level 2 certificate in wax depilation.

• Frank Lebouef is an actor, best known for his appearance in Oscar-winning ‘The Theory of Everything’ as the doctor who informed the young Stephen Hawking that he’d never walk again. He has also acted on stage in several plays in France.

• Taribo West. The lime-green corn-crowed Nigerian is a pastor in the absurdist wing of the Church of the Latter Day Flapdoodles ministering at ‘The Shelter In The Storm Miracles Ministries Of All Nations’ church in Lagos.

• Neil Warnock the former Chesterfield, Rotherham United and Aldershot winger is currently the manager of Premier League team Cardiff City [citation needed]

There are moments in any season that you realise at the time might define the current campaign and have a major influence on the long term prospects of the club. One such revelation was Rudy Gestede’s leap and thunderous headed goal that confirmed our victory against Forest in the previous Championship promotion campaign and meant it was more or less impossible not to get promoted. A natural inclination to crippling doubt in the face of all potential outcomes had finally been laid to rest as I slumped down in my seat, resigned to greater days ahead. 

Similarly, Anthony Gerrard’s penalty shoot out drag past the post in the League Cup Final against Liverpool (seven years ago this weekend) confirmed that the natural order of things had been restored, and that notwithstanding the crushing disappointment of another Cup Final defeat, we were no longer hostages to the malevolence of hope and distorted idealism; we’d had a nice day out thank you very much, well done you Scousers, we’ll just tootle off back home probably never to return. 

These headline flashes are relatively few and easily recalled. Overlooked, but often of greater significance, are those in-between moments the impact of which is only revealed in the light of future events. Such a moment occurred on the hour mark in the Watford defeat. We were 0-1 down, but buoyed by the memory of recent victories against expectations, as Joe Bennett stepped up to take a free kick the midfield joined our attack jostling for advantage on the edge of the opposition penalty box. As we now know, Bennett’s under-egged free kick led to a breakaway goal, within 12 minutes we were 0-4 down and the game was up. 

Only four days on, the impact of that devastating defeat was clear to see. It was imperative that we started well if the mental scars were to have a chance to heal. Within three minutes Zahore, restored to the starting line-up due to the ineligibility of the on-loan Niasse against his parent club, made a decisive run into the box and with the goal at his mercy elected to cross for the rampaging Mendez-Laing who was foiled by the fateful brush of a defender’s toe. 

For a while we played with some belief against an Everton team in the middle of a slump, and showing little confidence, providing few threats. Although the initiative was with us, an early goal was essential if we were to bury the ghosts of Friday night. England ‘keeper Pickford however remained untroubled throughout a scrappy first half, both sides struggling to string two passes together and playing as if auditioning for the Championship. It was pretty uninspiring stuff.

If the match was ever to evolve into a meaningful contest it was always likely to be turned by the one player on the pitch oozing class. Baited by the petty and the small-minded amongst the home fans (the majority) for the Swansea connection Gylfi Sigurdsson so often our nemesis proved yet again to be the scourge. On 40 minutes, after a charge from Irish international full back Coleman, Sigurdsson made a perfectly timed run into the box and deftly stroked the ball past Etheridge to break the deadlock. His intervention seemed loaded with significance.

Until recent events, the one trait defining this season has been our capacity to take misfortune in our stride, to rise to the occasion with an indomitable spirit, displaying great ‘bouncebackability’. The mood on the terraces has soured; setbacks are suddenly looked upon ominously. We have returned to our habitual state of resignation. When the opposition scores first we no longer expect a reaction; the assumption is that defeat is inevitable, only the magnitude in doubt.

Whether this negativity is spread from the terraces to the pitch or vice versa is uncertain but last night it was pervasive. It must knock the team’s self-esteem to see the stands slowly emptying with 20 minutes to go but after Sigurdsson had dispatched his second following substitute Bernard’s waltz through a submissive Bluebirds’ defence, any residual confidence had evaporated. It was just left for Calvert-Lewin to deliver the injury time coup-de-gras, which I’m proud to say me and the heir to my ruinous obsession were still there to see, like so much collateral damage, silent witnesses on a desolate battlefield of abandoned dreams.

A glance at the remaining fixtures offers little encouragement. Eight of the remaining ten games are against either fellow strugglers or the top four. It’s expecting a bit much for the decisive moments to go in our favour and I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for those whimsical in-between times either…

CCFC 1 v 5 WATFORD

The reach of the Premier League is now so wide that you can take a taxi ride anywhere in the world and immediately strike up an intense conversation with a well-informed footie fanatic only too happy to riff on the merits of his chosen team. From Beijing to Bangkok, Delhi to Dubrovnik, Lima to Las Vegas everyone seems to have an opinion. 

It’s also now de riguer for celebrities and media folk to declare a mostly spurious allegiance to (successful) teams. There are some extraordinary affiliations claimed by ‘slebs’ and others, rarely backed up with any meaningful association with ‘their’ team. The Manchester clubs in particular have been cursed with sham-fans but it’s fair to say you can discount any genuine emotional attachment to Mancs U or C claimed by those without roots in the North West of England. Anyone born beyond the clack of the spinning jenny claiming to be diehard Reds or Sky Blues can be dismissed as opportunists. 

Those living in Greater Manchester are spoilt for choice. Mad-for-its from Bury, Bolton, Oldham, Rochdale, Wigan etc. have perfectly good local teams to obsess over. In the lower leagues the options are even wider. Footie fans from Atherton for example are able to choose between ‘The Colls’ (Atherton Collieries) in the Northern Premier League and ‘The Panthers’ (Atherton Laburnum Rovers) in North West Counties Div 1. What on earth would persuade the locals to throw their lot in with their more ‘fashionable’ noisy neighbours?

Now that the southern softie carpet-bagging Beckham has joined forces with his chums from the ‘Class of 92’ the newly gentrified Salford Town will no doubt shortly be inundated with a rag-bag of Scientologists and Hollywood charlatans. Fans can anticipate witnessing a cloth-capped  Cruise Clan, the Travolta Tribe and their A-lister ‘bessies’ dragging on Capstan full-strengths, waving their rattles shouting ‘Pull up yers kegs, that’s bobbins - give yer ‘ead a wobble, ya mingers!’ and Making It Real down on Beasley Street.

The popularity of the Premier League has thrown up some supporters of English clubs who on the face of it are unlikely to have much else in common. It would be fun though to be in the Directors’ box at Old Trafford should Geoff Boycott, Miley Cyrus and Kim Jong-Un ever get invited to the same game. Similarly, Ian Duncan Smith and Jah Wobble would surely have plenty to chew over at the new White Hart Lane. It’s perhaps unlikely though that Liam Neeson will ever meet fellow Honorary Scousers LeBron James or Samuel L Jackson at Anfield given that they ‘might have a go at me over something, you know…?’

That our opponents today, Watford, can apparently count on the support of the likes of Robert Downey Jnr and Jennifer Aniston has everything to do with the patronage of one Reginald Kenneth Dwight, AKA Sir Elton Hercules Candelarbra, a fan since childhood who upon taking control of the 4th Division club in 1976 faced much derision after committing to take them to Division One, a feat he achieved within five years after appointing Graham Taylor as manager. 

He also took them to an FA Cup Final in 1984, losing to Everton, and who amongst us could fail to be moved at the sight of the blubbing Blue Eyes at the final whistle not ‘holding back the tears, holding back the pain’. 

To be fair to His Royal Regness, the loyalty shown to Graham Taylor is a lesson that the current owners the Pozzo family (or ‘Madmen Across The Water’…) might one day learn. Their first decision after taking control of the club in 2012 was to replace Sean Dyche with Gianfranco Zola, a bonkers move which established a pattern of bonkery:

• Zola had but one season in charge, his ambitions for the club snuffed out Like A Candle In The Wind after an extra time play-off final defeat.

• Guiseppe Sannino’s attachment to The Hornets was little more than a Part Time Love. One season in charge.

• Barcelona’s Oscar Garcia stepped down after 2 weeks for health reasons, to be replaced by Billy McKinlay who was shown the door after 8 days, one win and one draw.

• Next up Slavisa Jokanovic who took the team to the Premier League. Can You Feel The Love Tonight Slavisa? Nope - sacked in the morning!

• Quique Sanchez Flores lasted 9 months to be replaced by Honky Cat Walter Mazzari, sacked 1 year into a 3 year contract. 

• Enter Marco Silva, gone after 6 months. Controversially tapped up by Everton. Why did he leave? I Guess It Was The Call From The Blues.

• Javi Gracia was appointed in January 2018 and remarkably, at the time of writing, is Still Standing (yeah, yeah, yeah…)

So, against the odds and all logic after a much-heralded record-breaking top-flight run of consecutive wins (just about any scenario holds the promise of achievement when you haven’t been in a position to compete for 50 years) we sit above the drop zone with two more winnable home games in the next five days. Bring it on!

In the event however, and continuing the theme of defying all logic, the manager’s team selection left most of us more than a little confused as Warnock chose to break up a reliable back four formation to find a place for captain Morrison returning from injury, opting for a central three and two wing-backs. Bacuna was given a first start, partnering Ralls in midfield, with Gunnarsson sitting it out on the bench alongside in-form Reid, leaving Niasse as the lone striker. 

Ordinarily, and considering all that he’s achieved for us, it would be more than a little churlish to question the manager’s judgement but tonight on so many levels he just got it wrong. Despite a reasonable start and playing with something approaching a swagger after our recent form, the opposition soon got the measure of a disordered defence, Janmaat and Deulofeu linking well and providing plenty of options for the rapacious Deeney. 

In midfield, although Bacuna was enthusiastic and prepared to take the initiative, the absence of the steadying influence of Gunnarsson meant that we were constantly overrun. Out wide, Murphy was capable of getting the better of Mariappa but didn’t seem to be on the same wavelength as Niasse who, although fleet of foot doesn’t look like a goalscorer. His natural position is as the junior partner, a supporting role taking the attention away from a natural predator.

Everywhere you looked we were found wanting, displaying few of the qualities that we’ve relied on to get us to this point. Yes, we should have been awarded a penalty and may have gone in level at half-time which would have restored some belief but we were second best in every aspect of the game against a team regarded as ‘the best of the rest’ beyond the top six, and now in prime position to take a Europa League qualifying spot. 

The impudent but intensely dislikable Deulofeu showed all the qualities that made him such a precocious young talent at Barcelona whilst hinting at the conceitedness that will probably continue to be his undoing. His hat-trick match-winning performance was aided by individual mistakes and a mystifying collective inertia but he took his opportunities well, ably supported by the wholehearted endeavour of Troy Deeney.

Be in no doubt, 5-1 reflected a yawning chasm in class, endeavour and belief; all in all this was a dispiriting performance but one from which, even at the age of 70 and after 50 years in the game Neil Warnock will surely recognise his mistakes and to be able to draw on that vast experience to address the issues and get us back on track before too much ground is lost. 

A Friday night fixture is a great way to start the weekend. If you win. So one dubious ‘winning run’ over, we can at least look forward to Wales extending their bona fide record 12 successive victories against an over-egged old enemy England this afternoon, staking a claim for the Six Nations title and putting a marker down for World Cup glory later in the year. What could possibly go wrong…

CCFC 2 v 0 BOURNEMOUTH

When the next history of Cardiff City Football Club is written it seems certain that the name of Emiliano Sala will loom large, the circumstances surrounding his disappearance and presumed death perhaps as significant as the contribution of bone fide legends and folk heroes. The man who would never have more than an ephemeral photo-op grip on the famous blue shirt held it as proudly as any that went before him eager to embrace new possibilities and the promise of future glories. His personal tragedy will in all probability be as defining a moment in the history of the club as any glorious cup run, promotion campaign or boardroom intrigue.

With his signing came the promise of renewal, a new impetus for the current faltering campaign and the hope that we might be able to consolidate and build for the long term. His agonising disappearance, and that of the pilot, is desperately poignant. As we contemplate the implications from our narrow perspective and mourn the loss of an unrealised potential, his dignified family is still desperately searching for answers that will probably never come. 

The response of the club has been exemplary, its executives supportive and under great duress displaying a unexpectedly deft human touch. A distressed Neil Warnock has suffered a cruel twist of fate at the end of his 40 year career in football management and is clearly struggling to come to terms with his ‘most difficult week’. His response and that of the players and supporters in the coming weeks will be hugely significant in determining the long term future of our club. Warnock accurately describes the situation as ‘unknown territory’; it seems unreasonable to expect a positive outcome. 

The great sports journalist Hugh McIllvaney who died last week reminded us that sport is a ‘magnificent triviality’, implying that sport is a distraction, an all-consuming pastime but one that rarely captures the essence of the human experience. The Emiliano Sala tragedy transcends that narrow definition.

Under normal circumstances, ie. any other circumstance, having the kick-off time rescheduled to suit the broadcaster’s business imperative is accepted grudgingly, a minor inconvenience offset by the knowledge that, against all expectations, the wider world is interested in the fortunes of our little team. Today’s match is bigger than itself, it’s an occasion, an opportunity to display a united front to the watching world. 

The hierarchy of a football club is not easy to define. The ownership is temporary, the executive provisional, the manager, coaches and players transient hired hands. It’s overly sentimental to claim that the club belongs to the fans, but we are its one constant and arguably we have the most at risk, with the least influence. 

The intersection of the Venn diagram of all those that have a stake in the club forms a critical mass at this difficult time, any peripheral areas of conflict or disaffection pushed to the margins. There will be no censure today, rather a mutual respect ensuring that all will be applauded from the arena whatever the outcome.

The laying of flowers and personal memorabilia outside the ground is affecting, the sentiments genuine, never mawkish. The muted, respectful crowd is like no other pre-match gathering I can recall. What is today? A wake? A celebration? Just another game? The uneasy ambiguity will only be resolved once the game gets underway. And that can’t come soon enough. 

Inside the ground silk daffodils are handed out in a tribute to the missing striker (which will have irritated those that had already paid the opportunist hawkers outside the ground for an inferior product) and through a combination of individual gestures and those organised by the club the missing striker and pilot receive due acclaim. The minute’s silence is respectfully observed, the plaintive cry of a seagull above the Ninian Stand the only sound to break the silence.

The game which had seemed almost incidental to the main event kicks off, and it’s down to business. There had been plenty of evidence in the narrow away defeat to Arsenal in midweek that the team was capable of showing great resolve as they turned in a performance that the manager described as one of the best of the season.

We make a lively start and are helped by an opposition clearly in a benevolent mood, defender Cook inexplicably raising his arm in the penalty box in direct view of referee Moss. Following some debate about the nominated penalty taker (don’t they resolve such matters in training…?) Bobby Reid steps up to blast the ball at goalkeeper Boruc who generously and theatrically dives out of the way. 1-0. Reid runs to the touchline to be handed a T-shirt adorned with a picture of Sala which is shown to the crowd.

As anticipated Bournemouth dominate possession and spend a long time encamped around the edge of our box. City’s back four hindered by the absence of injured captain Morrison hold firm, Bamba making a number of superbly timed interventions. His ability to read the game and to assess danger is exceptional, often undermined by wayward distribution out of defence. Today he is flawless, directing the back line and in total command of his brief. 

The versatile Jack-of-all-trades Paterson is given a wide role today and links up well with home debutant Niasse running the channels, always alert and forcing the opposition defence on the back foot. Murphy has a number of forays down the opposite flank, providing low decisive crosses tantalisingly beyond the reach of an attack at fault for not anticipating the possibilities.

Murphy, Paterson and even Reid epitomise a spirited team display by being prepared to track back and help their swamped defensive colleagues, allowing Bournemouth few chances in the first half. City’s defence remains resolute, the Cherries only real attempt on goal coming from outside the box - captain Surman’s strike superbly tipped over the bar by the flying Etheridge ensuring that finally, for the first time this season, we go into the break ahead.

Within 15 seconds of the restart while most are still making their way back to their seats or else not really paying attention (guilty) Reid has doubled the lead, narrowly breaking the offside trap and cooly dispatching the ball past the advancing Boruc. 2-0. Wow!

Bournemouth had stunned Chelsea in midweek scoring four in the second 45 so with half the game still to play nothing can be taken for granted. The anticipated assault arrives and on the hour all round decent chap, and a shoe-in for future England manager, Eddie Howe reinforces his attack. If the assumption was that City’s doughty defence would tire (it was) their response is hugely encouraging, providing some reassurance that they are capable of meeting the challenges ahead. 

Bamba has already been booked but makes a couple of rash challenges, Jonathon Moss indicating that he’s one more indiscretion away from dismissal. But the defensive line holds firm as Bournemouth who might fairly be accused of trying to walk the ball into the net struggle to take the initiative. As the game opens up we have one or two chances to extend our lead, substitute Zahore unlucky not to score late on.

For the last ten minutes the ground reverberates to the sound of a heartfelt tribute to Emiliano Sala as extended applause and a specially-composed Canton End chant bring the game to a fitting conclusion.

A tearful Neil Warnock walks to every corner of the ground to honour the fans’ contribution in this turbulent time and we marvel at how his team has managed to put in the most complete performance of the season in the most difficult of circumstances. We reflect at the hold this ‘magnificent triviality’ has over us, and wonder where it will take us next.