The team of the half-season.

1. Ben Foster: One of the few success stories in what has been a poor season for Birmingham. Written off at Old Trafford, Foster has made a string of impressive saves but has also added some much needed calmness to his game. His performance against Chelsea at St Andrews was the standout goalkeeping one.

2. Bacary Sagna: After a dip last season, the Frenchman has regained his debut season form for Arsenal. One of the few defensive bright spots for the Gunners.

3. Patrice Evra: It is a measure of Evra's consistency and his abilty to get forward that he has disgusied United's lack of a left wing threat for a couple of seasons now. Started slowly but now back to his best.

4. Gary Cahill: Bolton have arguably been the team of the season so far with Owen Coyle a decent bet for manager of the year. It is their passing game that has impressed the most but that has been built on the solidity provided by Cahill at the back.

5. Nemanja Vidic: Made captain at Old Trafford at the start of the season, the Serb has responded by leading his team to the top of the table. He has resumed his powerful partnership with Rio Ferdinand and has guided the likes of Chris Smalling through.

6. Nani: Often a candidate for most fustrating player the Portugeese is now one for most improved. A constant stream of goals and assists. His new found defensive responsabilty should also be noted.

7. Alex Song: So often known as Arsenal's only enforcer, Song has shown just how adept he is with the ball at his feet. Five goals this season equals his tally for the previous five.

8. Rafael Van der Vaart: Goals, assists and genuine class. The Dutchman has a strong chance of being footballer of the year next May. His intelligence in front of goal and his cleverness at finding space have added a new dimension to Spurs.

9. Samir Nasri: Despite the claims of the excellent Gareth Bale it is the little Frenchman that gets the vote. Double figures in goals and his role for Arsenal in the absence of Fabregas was vital.

10. Andy Carroll: Alot wondered if the giant Geordie could score at the highest level and so far he has emphatically shown he can. An obvious danger in the air, he proved against Liverpool he can also be deadly on the ground.

11. Carlos Tevez: Forget the transfer talk, the Argentinan has yet again been the focal point for Man City. He has maintained his level of performance from last season and is vital if City are to maintain a title challenge.

Alternate team : Hart, Rafael, Cathcart, Gallas, Baines, Varney, Modric, T.Cahill, Bale, Elmander, Berbatov.

City star ready for next season.

Cork City striker Graham Cummins has said that there can be no excuses next year as the club battle to regain its Premier League status but that he also expects the competition to be tough.

“It depends on what type of squad the manager puts together before the start of the season, other clubs like Waterford and Shelburne have strengthened so it will be tough but there are no excuses for us, last year was all about stability and learning as a team. Next year we will have a good pre-season and we will hopefully be able to really push for it” he said.

The City star had a fantastic season last year finishing as the division one top scorer and earning a string of rave reviews for his performances on his own up front. He puts his great season down to a combination of things.

“The coaching staff helped me a lot. I felt a lot stronger and fitter last season. The season I had with Waterford in 2009 really pushed me along as well. Being upfront on your own is a lot of responsibility and that helped me in a way. You are not dropping deep or out to the wings, you are staying up top and trying to be a threat. I think I have become more mature as a player and because of that I was able to focus on the role”

He sees room for improvement in his game however.

“I was happy with the amount of goals I scored but I kind of hit a wall towards the end. I didn’t score in my last five games and I’d like to get more towards the end of the season”

His performances for City were recognised by him be selected in the First Division team of the year and winning the division’s player of the year award last season. He was also selected for the Republic Of Ireland under 23 squad for game against Estonia last September.

“That was probably a personal highlight. I really enjoyed the set-up there. Training in the morning. All your meals ready for you. It was a good environment to learn and help you grow as a player. A great experience”

He believes City can kick on next year and earn promotion back to their rightful place in the Premier League.

“Everything about the place is geared towards it” he explained. “ The stadium and training ground are great and the management give you everything you need outside of that like gym membership, it’s a very professional set-up”

The striker who scored eighteen goals last season is happy at the club and sees his immediate future there having agreed a two-year contract earlier this year.

“Yeah, it is a two-year deal and I’m enjoying my time here, I don’t see anything happening to change that at the moment, a lot of the lads have signed on again from last year so that can only help us” he said.

The lure of England must be strong however for a player who has attracted interest after his sterling performances last season.

“Of course playing in England is an ambition for most lads, if a good opportunity came you would have to look at it. It would mean more stability for you in your career. But I was over in Sunderland before for two weeks and being on trial is not easy. You have to be sure. I think a lot of players used to go over when they were fifteen or sixteen and then come back. You are better off playing in the League of Ireland and then if a chance comes up maybe look at it”

He cites the likes of former city stars Kevin Doyle and Roy ‘O Donovan as examples of players who spent their youth playing in Ireland before plying their trade across the water. Former city player Kevin Long- who last week extended his loan deal from Burnley to Accrington Stanley- is another example.

“Kevin Doyle opened the gate I suppose, he was such a success that teams started looking at the league for other players. The likes of Roy ‘O Donovan at Coventry is doing well and Kevin Long has a good deal at Burnley so it shows there is a lot of quality in the league”

The recession of course has cast it shadow across all spectres of sport in the country but soccer is affected more than most. Drogheda United announced last week that they need to raise €185,000 by the 28th of January if they are to meet the likes of Cork in next seasons First Division. This kind of instability only adds to the pressure for players to find work. Cummins is currently doing some Christmas work and admits it is hard to combine his soccer career and to find stable employment.

“I finished college last year and am just picking drink orders for Christmas. It is hard. The clubs here now can be unreliable with their financial difficulties. You hear a lot about GAA players maybe going abroad for work and it may happen with soccer players too. It’s hard to combine the two. You need time off, usually every Friday and employers aren’t going to be too keen on that”

For now his sights are firmly set on next season. Improving on such a good season last year won’t be easy. Is his target to score more goals than he did last season?

“Well you want to improve as a player. I’d obviously like to score more goals than I did last season but if you offered me scoring less goals and us winning the league next year than I would definitely take that. It all about getting into the Premier League”

The Douglas man is gunning for the season to start then. If he can repeat, or improve upon his stellar form last year than City have a great chance to return to where they believe they belong.

Lessons for Roy to take on the road.

IF ONE was to compare the origins of the managerial careers of Alex Ferguson and Roy Keane, then Ferguson – with East Sterling and St Mirren – took the road less travelled.

Keane is still the voyager but he has trodden down more familiar paths and is struggling to find his way.

He is young enough to overcome these struggles. But he would do well to examine the early years that shaped Ferguson and heed some lessons.

By his own admission, Fergie has mellowed with age. His wild anger in his early days as a manger became more subdued and surgical as time passed. He motivated players by putting an arm around some and by slaughtering others.

He speaks in his autobiography of the Aberdeen player John Hewitt, “I knew if I looked at John at a team talk he would fold up. I never involved him in a team talk because I knew it could destroy him. He was really scared of me” So he encouraged him. Conversely he checked the ego of others when he needed to.

That is the bedrock of successful management. Yet the suspicion remains that Keane has yet to embrace it. He seems to have a default way of motivating his players and it is an earful. Jonathan Walters said after leaving Ipswich for Stoke that “Even now I speak to the lads at Ipswich and when they get beat, well, we know what’s been said before we even speak to anyone. We guess, ‘Aye, this is what’s been said this week’ and we ring all the lads and that’s what happened. It’s eggshells all the time.”

If it is a constant hammering than the message is lost. Keane’s anger is a broad sword to the Ferguson scalpel. Players today will just shrug their shoulders and call their agent. He needs to accept that attitudes have changed.

Here he is at a disadvantage. His enormous profile as a player and his fascinating character ensured much ink when he took the plunge into management. Ferguson was a failed player who took on East Stirling when he started. Keane landed with a sleeping giant in Sunderland and now has arguably another one in Ipswich.

He can compensate for this however with his magnetic personality. Every press conference of his is jammed with razor-sharp quips. When he speaks, he speaks honestly and possesses a ability for withering one-liners. He can use this to help his players. Ferguson religiously defends his players in public no matter the indiscretion. Keane’s constant transfer talk and public rebukes can only make his players nervous. He should use his ability on the camera to infuse his players with confidence.

Keane has already lasted longer than Ferguson did at his first club. Ferguson was fired at his second. Only with his third did the road become clear and lessons learned along make it an easier path.

Should Keane learn from his mistakes and from his mentor then his road as a manger will be easier to travel and it may make all the difference.

Wenger needs a dose of reality.

It is turning into another winter of discontent for Arsenal and Arsene Wenger. Not only did they suffer a derby day humiliation to Spurs last Saturday but their progress in the champions league was shuddered by a meek display and loss to Braga in midweek. They recovered today to beat Aston Villa but only after another scare and performance that fitted them perfectly: full of invention and naivety.

Wenger has, in typical style defended his players. He refutes the claim they have a soft centre. The closest he came to criticism was admitting that they are "not cautious enough". Are they naive? "You can call it naivety – but it's a harsh word," he said.

It can be a harsh word but its applicable, to the manager. Wenger must be applauded for his philosophy on the game. On the pitch and off of it. But one always gets the impression that he believes he should win. That by adhering to a strict fiscal policy and by the purity of Arsenals play, success is a right.

Of course it isn't. Staying on the track doesn't mean Schumacher won't shunt you off of it.

Wenger's reasoning behind signing and developing young players is sound, as he explained last year: "Briefly, these are the basics. I thought: ‘We are building a stadium, so I will get young players in early so I do not find myself exposed on the transfer market without the money to compete with the others. I build a team, and we compensate by creating a style of play, by creating a culture at the club because the boy comes in at 16 or 17 and when they go out they have a supplement of soul, of love for the club, because they have been educated together".

It is a Utopian mantra. But the lack of experience and Wenger's lack of ruthlessness in weeding out his under-performers is costing him the only currency that matters to fans: silverware.

It has been six years since Arsenal won a trophy. A Patrick Veira penalty sealed the F.A cup against Manchester United in 2004. Veira was the fulcrum for Arsenal. Inculcated in the Arsenal way by the likes of Tony Adams he drove them to the heights of invincibility. He was then jettisoned. Too old. For Veira read Campbell, or Pires or Theirry Henry.

The value of Paul Scholes, Ryan Giggs and Gary Neville to United goes far beyond what they do on the pitch. They establish a culture. They point the way. A young player or a new signing look at these legends and began to understand and embed themselves in a culture.

Should Wenger have kept some or all of the above? Was Henry really in serious decline? Sometimes their is a human factor to consider when it comes to a transfer. On paper the Juventus offer for Veira made perfect sense. Physically he was in decline, and Arsenal made a profit. But a voice in the dressing room was lost. The chain back to Adams and Dixon was broken.

The eulogies for Wenger when he retires will be long and deserved. He has brought football of poetic beauty to Arsenal. He has built them a stadium. He made them briefly, invincible. But his philosophy must change to once again win, the major trophies.

The Arsene way needs tweaking.

Show me numbers.

On January tenth next year, FIFA, in conjunction for the first time with France Football will announce the winner of the Ballon d’Or. There are twenty three nominees in total and as is usually the case with awards of this nature some argument can be made about the validity of certain names on the list. No-one doubts, for example that Miroslav Klose enjoyed a stellar World cup, especially in comparison with Wayne Rooney but the Manchester United man scored thirty-four goals in total last year. Set alongside Klose’s meagre return of six for Bayern Munich this simple stat could tell us perhaps Rooney is more worthy of a nomination that the German.

Is it time then to base the greatest of individual awards on statistics? Should it be broken into four categories for goalkeeper, defender, midfield and attacker? How could it work? Well UEFA already compensate when deciding their Golden Boot winner. Goals from the supposed tougher leagues count for more than the weaker ones. Couldn’t a system such as this be used to decide the best? For attackers and midfielders: goals, assists and pass completion would form the basis for the award. With additional points for intercepts and successful tackles. The basis for defenders would be the opposite with intercepts and tackles forming the crux.

Lies. Damned Lies and statistics. The genius of this ubiquitous statement is that it can be applied to anything. Most surely football. There was a certain masochistic glee from Jose Mourinho last season when pondering the statistic that Barcelona-a team his Inter had just knocked out of the Champions league at the semi-final stage-completed five hundred and forty eight passes to Inter’s sixty seven.

Barca managed to win the game but lost the tie on aggregate. Mourinho called it his greatest loss. Based on my stat award idea then, in this game, the superb discipline of Estabian Cambiassio would be worth less than Sergio Busquets merely prompting Barca forward. Static sports such as Baseball and NFL are made for stats. The fluidity and ever changing nature of football make it difficult to grind it into mere numbers. It must also be noted that FIFA in particular cannot be relied upon to get rankings right as anyone who follows their world rankings could testify.

The stats of course cannot tell the whole story. But they can tell a hell of a lot. We do not need stats to realise that Paul Scholes rarely gives the ball away or that Michael Essien covers a lot of ground but it does help crystallize the enormity of what the modern greats can achieve. If awards like the Ballon d’Or could not conceivably be based on stats, then more of them are needed in ink and on television to better appreciate the interceptions of Michael Carrick or the blocks of Vincent Kompany. there are a number of good websites that help in this but they are still mostly for the die-hards.

Stats need to be common. Your average twelve year old should be able to tell you Michel Arteta’s pass completion rate or the average amount of Vidic clearances. By highlighting this more. By making stats like this universal, the more mundane arts of football can get the appreciation it deserves.

Kidney searching for a content Autumn.

There is a scene in Friends, the ever-present American sitcom where Chandler, the funny one explains that , to men, kissing is like the warm-up you have to sit through before Pink Floyd comes out. Rugby fans can be forgiven for thinking along the same lines with regards to the Autumn internationals. Lacking the fervour or colour of the Six nations, they are mostly to be endured rather than enjoyed. We gear up for the antipodean invasion hoping to snatch a win against the Aussies or even the Boks, and avoid embarrassment against New Zealand. Argentina serve the grudge course of the Autumn meal while the like of Samoa offer a chance for those stuck carrying tackle bags for the week, to sample some game time.

But this is no ordinary year. The clock is well and truly ticking to New Zealand 2011. Should Ireland ever want to banish to ghosts of France ‘07 then the preparations kick up a couple of notches with this series. Four physical tests in four weeks. Questions answered about key areas of the team.

One of which, as ever, is the front row. Time seems to have finally caught up with John Hayes. His predecessor in red and green, Tony Buckley looks ready to seize the number three shirt and retain it. Mike Ross has impressed this season. No more so than his performance for Leinster against Racing metro but he lacks Buckley’s mobility around the pitch. Tom Court has been steady for Ulster but has not done enough to edge out Cian Healy. Jerry Flannery’s injury problems leaves the contest for the hooker jersey between Connaught’s Sean Cronin and Ulster’s Rory Best. Best is more experienced but has misfired with his darts recently. Cronin has the dynamism and that little bit of devil to be a force at this level.

The centres and second-rows pick themselves barring injury. Two of the back-three look safe, leaving a tussle between Keith Earls and Luke Fitzgerald for the other wing spot. The back-row is much the same with Jamie Heaslip and Stephen Ferris certain to start against South Africa. Sean O’Brien’s form at seven deserves recognition despite some vintage David Wallace cameos. Denis Leamy adds beef from the bench. Scrum-half is tough to call. Eoin Reddan just shades it on form but it would be no surprise if Declan Kidney thought otherwise and opted for Peter Stringer.

The battle at ten remains delicately poised. But Jonathan Sexton’s pyrotechnics at Wembley against Saracens has probably swung it his way. The argument could be made anyway, that Sexton is the coming force at ten and needs a run of games to bank for next year.

Ireland will target the South Africa game as their best chance of victory against one of the top dogs. The Boks are hurting however from a meek Tri-Nations and have selected their strongest possible squad. It might be a stretch to suggest that perhaps the passage of time has eased the animosity between Argentina and Ireland but we can only hope that the dismal standard of recent games between them can be upped in the next one. There is a crushing inevitability about a loss to the All Blacks. Kidney can only hope it is close and a lot is learned. Three wins is achievable, two should be a minimum. But for the Irish coaching team the warm up act starts here. Its along way to Pink Floyd.

He waits

The British and Irish Lions are playing South Africa in the second test of the test series in Pretoria. The Lions lost the first test narrowly and needed a win to take the series to the final game. Ronan ‘O Gara was on the bench for the first test and some had suggested he play in the second, this is a fictional account of his thoughts on the lead up to and during that second test.


We wait. Another hotel. Another sheet, another cushion. The swirling cycle of air-con humming overhead. They don’t see this. Preening, perfect gear. Snapshots. Quotes. Glory and pain. But never the wait. Should I have hope? He didn’t go so well last week. Everyone talking about the fucking scrum but what about those penalties he missed? Would have swung it our way. It’s not just self-belief. I would have nailed them.

Training going well. Haven’t missed a kick. Putting Roberts and the like into space, making those tackles. I can feel Edwards nostrils glaring just before I try and make the hit. He wants me to miss. He can point and say that’s it. There is your reason Rodge, you cant put him down. How would you be if Spies ran at you? Its that game now. Freaks built for car-crashes. Mine are tired of having to strap me in. My world slows when they approach. Two hands on the ball becomes one when they see me, Gum-shield smile with a glint in the eye. Its O’Gara. Smash him. I go high or low and end with studs on my back. No matter, get up, give me the ball. Lets see if the wrecking ball can run sixty yards.

Paulie is under pressure. Hacks waiting in the long grass. What a way to be. You are playing on Saturday. Spending ten years at home, no-one pressuring me but myself. Come Wednesday night, I’ll be back twelve years of age with a knot in my stomach, hoping the name is read out. Twenty-two does not sit easy. Not like ten does.

Jones trained well today. Made his kicks and created space. Even made a couple of breaks. Breaks he made. Beat the tackle, offloaded. I’m hoping Geech still has those pens in his mind. He didn’t bottle it but his technique is wrong. It’s ugly, deformed. He goes straight at the ball. I wince watching him. I line mine up after him. A new source of power. I stab the tip of my right toe into the ground now as I approach, one smooth arm-swing and step and bang. My own gum-shield smile.

We potter around the edge. Gatland calls us in. A group on one side against the other. Short, sharp drills. Ball in hand, I loop one onto Drico’s hand. I hit him with the same one against Argentina in the world cup. He just needs to bend his run an inch and he’s in. Not many can do it. But he can. Not many can fling out the pass like I can. I am purring now, little grubbers, wrap-round’s. They get it and offer nothing. Jones has made his tackles and he figures that is all he needs. Heaslip is carrying, I fade out. Take the gamble and try and stop him, I go low, hold him up before Wally brings him down.

I feel good stepping off. No more could have been done. But their minds are made up. I lay, suspended waiting for the call. Congratulations Ronan you have made it into the test twenty-two. Twenty-two. I hang up and watch the fan go around. I wont ever get my Lions turn.

Game day, guys in the zone. Me trying to blend into the background. Some words for some of the fellas. Nothing for the others. I wish Stephen all the best. I sit and listen to Geech, he can really speak but by the fourth week it starts to sound like what the yanks call a stump speech. Studs clatter, throats gargle. Players embrace. It is going to be a war. And I will be watching.

We start well, Rob goes over early for a try. A brilliant offload from Jones. Burger is in the bin for the boks. Gouging. They, like the All-Blacks don’t sniff at the dark arts at this level. The commitment is ferocious, obscene. The red and green roar, commanding Romans baying for Christian blood. Some moments of class. Du Preez seems to slow the lot down, pop little passes, snipe little runs. We cough up a stupid try. Basic defence from a line-out. Pietersen in for an easy finish. We lead at the break. Geech implores them to keep going. Gatland is leading an inquest into the try and Edwards is just shouting. Paulie is going around to everyone, an arm here, a rollicking there. We could be in Musgrave down by three to Ulster. Nothing changes with him.

The Bok’s begin motoring. Nothing, aside from Du Preez is inventive. There is no grand plan to the world champions. They just run harder and faster than anyone else. Sustain it and they have no answer. Guys are running on empty. Jenkins and Adam Jones are gone because of concussion, Drico follows. He flattens the biggest bok he can find and suffers for it. Some lady boy he is. Edwards starts to look my way. Twenty-two on my back. Your last option. Geech beckons with a nod. My turn?

Twelve minutes, game in the balance. Roberts off for me. Just make your fucking tackles is the Edwards instruction. We are patched up, miss-matches all over field. Forwards in close contact, making yards on backs. Backs hitting props in space. Fourie gets the ball out wide. I fade to meet him. I aim low. Stop him at source. He pumps his legs and batters through me. I feel my right eye squelching against my socket, I turn and look to see him ground it. It takes a minute to confirm but its good. We get a penalty to level. Jones nails it. Ugly but good. My eyesight is reduced to half. Three left and level. This series is there. Give me a chance to win it.

The ball is pumped into our twenty-two. It bobbles towards the try line. I pick it up and evaluate. Tommy is standing right next to me. What the fuck is he doing? A game to be won. I point forward and roar at him to go. Thirty seconds left, one bounce of a ball and we win. I launch it. I am back on my bed watching the fan cut the air, the ball spirals into the sun. This is my turn. It drops towards me in what seems an instant, to Du Preez it takes a lifetime, my good eye sees him seizing it up. He is getting there. No gum-shield. He wants to be sure. By the time I arrive he is in the air. I brush off his legs. He falls. Penalty. I don’t need to see the rest. The script is written. I trudge off. The boys don’t meet my eyes. When they do, try as the might to hide it, they scream, why didn’t you kick it out? I wait. Battered, broken and bowed. It was my turn but it didn’t spin my way.

World of Wayne a cautionary tale.

It is a truth universally recognised, that a young superstar playing for Manchester United,in possession of vast fortune, should never cross Sir Alex Ferguson. The old knight's tale at Old Trafford is strewn with cast aside lieutenants. Some foolhardy, others feckless but all at the end expelled from the empire. As the trickle of stories on Sunday about Wayne Rooney became a flood, United fans could be forgiven for shrugging and murmuring that another hero is about to bite the dust.

It all started in Munich last March. United met Bayern in the first leg of the quarter-final of the Champions league. They were on their way to securing a valuable score draw when Rooney, trying to intercept an onrushing Mario Gomez, went over on his right ankle. It was not a stretch to say that any red hopes of silverware were effectively ended once he sustained the injury. Bayern scored as he lay stricken on the ground and United never recovered. He regained fitness towards the end of the season but lost all sharpness as his subsequent dire World cup performances attested.

Post World cup, with tabloid knives sharpened and court injunctions weakening, the story of Rooney's infidelities with a prostitute arrived with the force of a Tiger four-iron. Ferguson, citing the ongoing ankle problem removed Rooney from the action. That he did so at Goodision aroused only a degree of suspicion. After all he subjected Cantona and Ferdinand to Leeds, but his defence that he didn't want the game to become all about Rooney seemed plausible. The insipid performances of Rooney in the aftermath of that however seemed to suggest all was not right between manager and player. Whispers of punishment got louder. Rooney, on England duty informed the world he never had an ankle problem and it was his manager's decision not to play him despite him being in his mind one hundred percent fit. This, in Ferguson's eyes, was a betrayal. His fibs about injuries have now become a laughing stock but this one was designed to protect a suffering player. There was a degree of punishment in the treatment. That much is undeniable but can Rooney honestly say he doesn't deserve it?

That he chose international week to stick it to his manager can only have enraged Ferguson more. A now confirmed fully fit Rooney sat on the bench against West Brom and was introduced after Darron Gibson despite United chasing a goal. The tabloids spoke of irreparable damage to their relationship with Rooney's camp all but confirming he has no intention of signing a new contract.

The sand glass has been well and truly tilted in this story and we all know the outcome. It is worth repeating the names of those pieces that Fergie flicked from his chess board. Ince, Stam, Beckham, Van Nistelrooy and Roy Keane. Should Rooney join that list, it will be his choosing. He may flourish away from Old Trafford but a man with his self-destructive personality should stay under the tutelage of the best. If not, then he who is nicknamed "Wazza" could well go the same way as his nick-namesake.

Put them under pressure Trap. Needs be.

What was extraordinary about the Republic of Ireland’s defeat to a sleek Russia last Friday night was the statistic that Ireland had forty-seven percent possession. The stat man obviously counts the time the ball was airborne because, for the most part, Aviva spectators were craning their necks like tourists in downtown Manhattan, as another Given missile took flight.

It is a percentage tactic and Trappatoni is a percentage coach. Four-four-two is his formation because that is what the majority of his players are happy with. He plays two holding midfielders to compensate for being minus one in an often crowded international middle ground. He expects work and creativity from his wingers. In that order. He lets Doyle scavenge and Keane pounce because that is what they naturally do. He is now being decried for applying practical methods to reach an objective.

Qualification is a results business. No-one was complaining when “Trap ball” worked in Yerevan. The calls for Fahey, Gibson or James McCarthy is based on the notion that one controller can change a team but that is simply not the case. Trappatoni has given Ireland an identity, one they are comfortable with. In the idealistic clamour for the beautiful game realism, from a green perspective is a Kevin Kilbane punt. Ireland play to their strengths. Paris, is of course the reference point for the purists. We can play they scream based on that. Watch it again. A lot of our best moments came from direct play. It was fast but the important part was, it was accurate. The central axis that night was Glenn Whelan and Keith Andrews. Paul Green was durable against Russia but Andrews is hardly a dramatic improvement on him. Richard Dunne’s honesty in the aftermath of the game was welcoming. Some interpreted it as an attack on the coach but he merely said that they, as players didn’t take responsibility on the ball. A lot must be said also about the excellent Russian performances and tactics.

John ‘O Shea was rushed into every clearance or pass resulting in too much being asked of Kevin Doyle. Kilbane was mercilessly targeted and it was chastening to watch such a loyal figure committing a cardinal error for the Russian’s second. Russia pressed and passed and against a team relatively shorn of players in form or fitness, it worked. Dick Advocaat got his tactics spot on and got the breaks when he needed them such as the first and third goals.

Ah yes you tut, but where was plan B? the ubiquitous plan B. One conjures up an image of a coach in trouble going to his desk and tearing off the seal on the envelope marked B. The fact is and it shall ever remain, is that goals change games. That Trappatoni believed that Irelands best way back was to presevere in the game plan was nearly proved correct in a frantic finale. He may change tomorrow night. The absence of Doyle nearly demands it. If it is to be Shane Long that replaces him then the service will have to be quick and in a lot of cases direct. A percentage ball if you will.

Raindrops......

It is raining in Wales today. No, really, it is and quite a lot too. I stumbled out of bed on a rare day off, hazily made my way to my sofa just in time for the first tee shot in the 2010 Ryder Cup. It had been eagerly anticipated, much discussed from all manner of pundits and journalists yet no-one seemed to have paid any heed to the weather man. It was Dustin Johnson who struck the first ball in anger, beads of water dropping rhythmically from his cap. If there was any doubt just who the big Texan was or who he was playing for it was dispelled in an instant for the Americans riposte to the nasty European weather was Harlem Globetrotter tracksuits. Their names emblazoned in star lettering on their backs. WOODS. USA. Thanks for that, I was wondering.

The rain continued unabated. One was expecting a window cleaner to pop up on the sky screens to wipe it clear. Tiger looked as if he would rather be in a press conference. In the midst of weather some fine golf broke out. Lee Westwood took the mantle of European leader in his stride while Jeff Overton holed a tremendous putt from the edge on one to banish any rookie nerves he may have had. And then we stopped. Steve Stricker could not place the ball anywhere on the fairway on the fourth. Sanity prevailed and the players rushed indoors. The Americans had to replace their waterproofs because they were just, frankly, ugly pants very susceptible to water.

The deadline for play to resume came and went at twelve and then one. The denouement will now come on Monday. The weather’s good. I’ve checked.

Berbatov soars as United topple Liverpool.

Sir Alex Ferguson, a veteran of twenty-four years of clashes between Manchester United and Liverpool likened himself to a parrot during the week when the discussing the upcoming match. He used the time-honoured line of “This is the game”. But even Ferguson with his vast experience could not have expected the rollercoaster that enveloped the game with half an hour to go.

United were cruising. Two up and looking for more when Fernando Torres, anonymous up until this point pulled away from Jonny Evans, shaped to shoot before dragging the ball back forcing the foul from the Northern Ireland man. Steven Gerrard duly dispatched the penalty and suddenly United looked vulnerable. Torres again slipped past the United defensive line before being upended by John O’Shea. Gerrard again stepped up and side-footed the free-kick through a porous United wall. It was a goal reminiscent of Mario Basler’s opener in the European Cup final in 1999 and for a time it looked like United were to suffer a Bayern like meltdown. But with five minutes left a cross by O’Shea was met by Dimitar Berbatov who planted his header beyond Pepe Reina. That the Bulgarian settled the game was apt. He soared over every other player on the pitch, scoring a hat-trick that has embellished his outstanding start to the season.

His first was a poacher’s effort. Minimal movement. A well delivered corner, He arched his body back and directed his header beyond the goalkeeper and the hapless Konchesky. His second may be beyond words. A hopeful cross from Nani fell to Berbatov five yards into the penalty area. He controlled it with his thigh before flipping a bicycle kick into the top left corner of a helpless Pepe Reina’s goal. It was both faintly sublime and ridiculous. An edge-of-seat, to standing on your feet, to blinking bewilderment beauty of a goal. Ferguson again praised his quality after the game. It is a great sign for the Bulgarian that his manager is starting to sound like a parrot when he talks about his number nine.

Jose Mourinho is not now, and may never be, truly great.

Bear with me, I am not doubting the self-anointed special ones talent as a football manger. That is indisputable. On whichever conquest in whatever land he has plundered silverware at will. But is he great? Is he a totemic figure like Ferguson or Lobanovskyi? Great despots who plant roots and see their shadow fall across a club for an eternity. Greatness is a treacherous thing to define in a football manager but it does not automatically come down to the trophies. It is the mark you leave on a club. The foundation built and the imprint left.

There is a wonderful story told by Volodymyr Sabaldyr about Lobanovskyi . Sabaldyr met Lobanovskyi in the aftermath of Dynamo Kyiv winning the Soviet supreme title for the first time in 1961. Sabaldyr, a scientist asked him how it felt to have achieved something that had been a dream for Kyivians for decades. Lobanovskyi replied “ A realised dream ceases to be a dream. What is your dream as a scientist? Your degree? Your doctorate? Your post-doctoral thesis?” “Maybe” Sabaldyr answered “But a real scientist dreams about making a contribution to scientific development, about leaving his mark on it” “And there you have your answer” said Lobanovskyi .

One wonders if Jose is bothered about leaving his mark on a club. Of course, at Chelsea and Inter he will be lauded as the man who ended the drought. A first title in fifty years in London and a first European cup in fifty at Milan. It is a safe bet that he will win another major title in Madrid but has he ever built? Has he ever defined a club? It could be argued that the foundation was laid first at Chelsea by Ranieri and at Inter by Roberto Mancini. Mention of the Italians brings to mind the great barb from one roman general to another. Lucullus and Pompey. Pompey, “the great” had been given command of Lucullus’s army to finish a war in the east. At a parley to relinquish control he compared Pompey to a nasty sort of carrion fowl who hung around battlefields in order to pick up what others had left.

Should Manuel Pellegrini ever read Plutarch than he may afford himself a wry smile at that jibe. Pellegrini’s side earned ninety six points last year are were denied the title by a Barca side that will go down in history as their greatest ever. Yet in typical Madrid style he was cast aside. Mourinho is walking in to pick up what Pellegrini has left. He will triumph and he will move on, one more land conquered. But he needs to plant his roots. We need to see a side mature in his image. He needs to define his values on one club. Until then he is special but not great.

A Premier view. Part one.

Arsenal

Five years is too long for once perennial challengers. The signings of Laurent Koscielny and Marouane Chamakh are good ones while the jettisoning of William Gallas can only improve the dressing room harmony. Much will depend on how Cesc Fabregas recovers from a summer blushing at Catalonia.

Prediction: 2nd.

Aston Villa.

The stunning loss of Martin 'O Neill has turned a season of promise into one of consolidation. Whoever comes in needs to keep Young and Agbonlahor and persude Randy Lerner to lossen the purse strings.

Prediction: 11th.

Birmingham.

A wonderful if unattractive season last year saw Alex McLeish’s side finish ninth but many of their victories last season came courtesy of single goal wins. A feat they will struggle to repeat. The signing of Nikola Zigic suggests that Birmingham’s plan B will be route one.

Prediction: 14th.

Blackburn Rovers.

Like him or loathe him Sam Allardyce generally gets the job done when it comes to premier league survival. Last season’s was based on a good home record and Rovers will need to repeat that. Not pretty but effective.

Prediction 12th.

Blackpool.

This year’s Derby? It seems so. Ian Holloway has a cult following of neutral fans for his idiosyncratic interviews but it has not helped him attract players to Blackpool. His is working on a minimal budget and as sad a fact it is, no investment equals no chance.

Prediction: 20th.

Bolton Wanderers

A canny summer from Owen Coyle has seen him recruit some quality in Ivan Klasnic and Martin Petrov. That should ensure Bolton are away from the dogfight below.

Prediction: 13th.

Chelsea.

The champions have been quiet in the summer with only Yossi Benayoun replacing Joe Cole though the signing of Ramires is expected to be completed before the big kick-off. Much will be needed from Drogba and Frank Lampard and one wonders how often they can go to the well. Michael Essien also needs a big, injury free season.

Prediction: 3rd.

Everton.

Seemingly always slow out of the traps, if David Moyes’s side start well they can bloody the supposed big guns. Too light a squad to challenge the top four but Everton have enough for the Europa.

Prediction: 6th.

Fulham.

The loss of Roy Hodgson could have seriously disabled them but the appointment of Mark Hughes could actually see the Cottagers rise in the league. Another striker is needed to ease the burden on Bobby Zamora but the absence of Europe on a small squad should see them nudge their way into the top ten.

Prediction: 9th.

Liverpool.

A summer played out in the business section has not been the ideal setting for a start to the season but the appointment of the calm Ray Hodgson and the retention of Fernando Torres means they can again push their way to the top table.

Prediction 4th.

Pining for a Depor.

In Phil Ball’s quite excellent book on Spanish football“Morbo” he uses the story of a young Galician women who upon being asked by a TV crew wither she felt sorry for the incessant rain that was pouring down an the rest of Spain replied simply “Que se jodan” translation: “F*** them”. The rest of Spain were outraged at the woman’s crass reply but were also amused by the typical Galician sprit. That was in the summer of 2002 when Deportivo La Corunna regularly thumbed their nose at the perennial powers in Spanish football; Barcelona and Real Madrid. Depor had won La Liga in 2000 having challenged for it consistently before then. Javier Irureta, the man who makes Avram Grant look like a jester led Depor to the championship, Kings Cup and the quarter-final of the champions league in a glittering three year period punctuated by the brilliance of Juan Carlos Valeron. Now a mere seven years later Valeron still plays for Depor, he still sprays those passes but like his club he is a fading force.

For Depor, read Villareal or Valencia. The top table in Spain used to be able to accommodate more than Barca and Madrid. But it seems, no longer. The chastening chasm between the big two and the rest appears to be widening even greater this summer. Take a look at the starting eleven of Spain’s victorious team in the final. Three Madrid, seven Barca. One Villareal. It is an apt indicator of where the power lies.

Sando Rosell, the new Barca president confirmed last week that the club had to take out a huge loan to ensure they could meet their wage payments. Of course the loan was never in question, Catalan banks are only too happy to help their standard-bearer but consider that Valencia, who are in dire financial straits had to sell David Silva to Manchester City and David Villa to…..Barca. Madrid financed their splurge last season on the back of bank loans, all this despite the fact that both enjoy a far greater share of the T.V money than anyone else. In another fine book “Why England lose” Simon Kuper argues that the normal fan is happy with the status quo. Happy that say Man United win the league every other year as long as its competitive and there is drama.

That is no longer the case in Spain. Rafael Benietez’s Valencia were the last to really split the big two but that is not likely to happen again. Not as long as any bright youngster such as Sergio Canales is whisked away to Madrid at seventeen. Not as long as money remains a monopoly plaything to Barca. Not as long as television money is not distributed fairly.

So I am left hoping for someone, somewhere to thumb their nose at those two. As the Galician lady said “F*** them”. It never seems to rain on them.

Iniesta.

He starts in the centre of it, as he usually is, from the corner of his eye he spots Busquets and flicks an impudent back-heel into his path. He carries on. Spain press, two passes later he is in Villa territory, that little pocket between the penalty spot and eighteen yard line. Dutch squirm over their shoulders, “Do you have him?” A panicky swipe of a clearance sends it to Fabregas. He looks up. Andres Iniesta has moved only slightly, about the distance of his back-heel to stay onside. The ball is played to him. The world stops just for a millisecond. Control and shoot. World champions. Many blink, many panic but this is Spain, this is Iniesta. Instant control but the ball rises a little too much. No matter, adjust, get over it. Laces lash against the ball. World champions in a moment of beautiful simplicity.

It is simple because the little man makes it so. For if Holland were best summed up in Nigel de Jong’s karate kid moment then Spain are best encapsulated by the technique of Iniesta. Wide left or right? Through the middle? No matter. That deftest of first touches that lures you in. Makes the defender think he can take it before it is snatched away. Iniesta is that rare breed, a footballer who stirs up your own memories as a child knocking it about. He has that innocence, that carefree manner on the pitch. He was rattled briefly last night. Van Bommel twice tried to force him off the pitch but thankfully to no avail.

For a player who has had such an injury-disrupted season as he, Iniesta’s bravery last night must also be applauded. Not in darting out of the crude challenges, he does that every week but in demanding the ball despite the attention. Winners want the ball.

It has been a dour world cup apparently, one suffocated in defensive tactics and strategic fouls. Perhaps so, but I’ll remember his side foot against Chile, him dancing past Paraguay, me screaming Villa’s Open! Only for him to slide in Pedro. I’ll remember countless times thinking he was boxed in only to see him scuttling off with the ball. I’ll remember his winner for all time but most of all I’ll remember him. Andres Iniesta. In the centre of it.

The Dutch are finally real.

The Dutch appreciate space like no other.Years of foraging for their own has given them an innate sense and acute awareness of space and how best to utilize it.In his tremendous book on Dutch football, David Winner marks the use of space as the defining attribute of the Netherlands as a football nation.Indeed if you were to think of football and Holland you would more than likely picture a skinny general named Cruyff or maybe one of the De Boer's raking a ball to Denis Bergkamp's chest. This Dutch side are perhaps more of a paint by numbers rather than a Van Cough but with a history forever casting judgement over them they have found their own way.

The great Ferencvaros and Hungary forward Tibor Nyilasi speaking about Hungary's cruel loss in the world cup final to Germany in 1954 commented years after "It is though Hungarian football is frozen in that moment, as though we have never quite moved on from then" It would be churlish to suggest that Dutch football has fallen to the depths of Hungarian but it could be argued that despite reaching the final again in 1978, The Netherlands have not recovered from that epochal loss to West Germany in 1974. It remains even today such an iconic game full of the greats.

Thanks to the wonder of the Internet it can be viewed easily. There is a wonderful moment at the start, Cryuff demanding the ball from the back and starts to amble a few passes away before launching into the penalty area and getting hacked down by Hoeness. Neeskens blasts it down the middle and the Dutch are one up without Germany touching the ball.Holland toyed with the Germans soon after but lost to a penalty conceded themselves and a Gerd Muller strike. Despite the loss the dye was cast for future Dutch teams.Total football became as synonymous with them as scoring became with Der Bomber.A succession of teams passed and moved and lost.Only the Milan trinity of Van Basten,Rijkaard and Gullit brought silverware in '88 but on the world stage the Dutch became the perennial dark horses. The "maybe" pick if all conditions were met.

Coming into this tournament they could boast an unbeaten qualifying record and in Arjen Robben and Weasly Snejider the two stand-out attacking players in the Champions league. They cruised through the group stage and edged past Slovakia in the round of sixteen game but were then expected to bow to Brazil in the quarter-final. They played the first-half of that game as if they agreed with the conventional wisdom but two freak goals, one a Julio Cesar flop, the other a Snejider header landed them in the semi's where despite some scares they dispatched Uraguay.

So they are back in the final. Playing a brand of football that can be described as pragmatic or downright nasty depending on your point of view. For some it is not the rapier Robben that epitomises this team but rather the, let's say robust Van Bommel who has summed up them up. All snaps and snarls in the middle of midfield. He negotiates that landmine with one of his own and seems to leaving a charmed life when it comes to yellow cards.

The Netherlands coach Bert van marwijk makes no excuse for Van Bommel or his tactics in deploying him. Graham Taylor remarked before the semi-final that Holland too often lose when they should win and he was right. They have had some wonderful teams in the recent past, think of the France 1998 side but they lacked a realist. Van Bommel and De Jong are that. Win the Ball. Keep the Ball. Slow the game. Win the game. The darker arts of Van Bommel game, the cynical, cruel fouls are an affront to the Dutch tradition but will that matter in Amsterdam should they win on Sunday? If van Bommel knocks Xavi out of his stride as Berti Vogts eventually did to Cryuff won't the end justify the means? Holland have deviated from Cryuff.The old master once said "It’s better to go down with your own vision, then with someone else’s". There are still flashes of him in a Snejider pass or Robben drag-back but winning ugly is still winning and Jules Rimet glistens either way.

Spain have the game to tame Germany.

It has, by general consensus been a strange world cup. A traditional power-house Italy exited with barely a murmur. England, widely fancied from their qualifying record went without even a penalty shoot-out and the French had a seismic meltdown. All the so called stars failed to fire, a plastic horn became a talking point and America briefly cared about the world’s game. It is no surprise to see perennial contenders Germany involved at the semi-final stage but it is the manner of their progress that has stunned.

The Germans have been electrifying. A blur of rapid passes and efficient finishing. Between them Bastian Schweinsteiger, Thomas Muller and Mezut Ozil all have legitimate claims to be player of the tournament so far. The devastating nature of their counter attack has left luminaries like Argentina choking in their dust. Even their stereotypical captain, a defender, is better known for his bursts forward than his defending. The loss of Michael Ballack, instead of hindering them seems to have liberated them. Schweinsteiger drives from the middle with the nimble Kediera dove-tailing with him perfectly. Ozil is humming as the creative hub while Podolski and Klose have found their international mojo.

But despite that there remains some doubt about Germany. In both wins over England and Argentina, they had the luxury of an early goal to calm any nerves of a young team while their centre of defence looks susceptible, especially to quick feet. It is unlikely that their opponents Spain will gift Germany oceans of green in which to launch a counter attack. The Spaniards relentless possession game may also tire Germany while Alonso and Busquets will not so easily be lead out of position as Gareth Barry was or be left isolated like Mascherano. Busquets in particular is important for Spain. For years they lacked his type. For all the artful flourishes from the likes of Xavi, it is the more Machiavellian nature of Busquets and his predecessor Marcos Senna that give Spain the edge needed at this level. Should they sit and play their “tika-taka” and force Germany to devise a way to break them down then they will prevail. It may not be the classic we all want but for Spain it may mean the final.

The tallest tale.

“I don’t care how tall he is, he can’t hurl so he’s height doesn't matter”. It is a warm June day in my local and the start to the eagerly awaited clash between Cork and Tipp has been delayed because of a northern football match. The conversation has settled on the merits or lack of, of Cork’s starting full-forward Aisake O hAilpin. Seventy minutes later the Tipp full-back line was reduced to quivering Lilliputians blinking at the Gulliver that had escaped, the giant had proven himself as he always has to. It is ever thus. From the player who has a good touch for a big man to those whose height is their principle force they are judged on their size first and ability later. Often they are stereotyped as gentle giants. It is a tired phrase but every once and a while it is appropriate. Picking up Sports Illustrated last week I discovered a man who the phrase perhaps best sums him up, or did. Only in his passing did I discover the remarkable story of Manute Bol. A man who stood out as a giant in a sport full of them.

One wonders what the reaction would have been last week in the most predictable of NBA drafts had Washington picked the son of a Dinka tribe chief from Sudan instead of John Wall. Bol ended up in Washington by way of Cleveland but his accession to the NBA was delayed by two years. Stating a technical fault with his file and passport which said Manute was nineteen they decreed that he was too young for the draft. The passport also said he was five feet two. Bol was measured while sitting down. In Cleveland University his base basketball was improved but it was his rudimentary English that was his biggest challenge, his English instructor Arleen Bialic explained “He couldn't’t use a telephone. He couldn't’t operate a coke machine. He didn’t even know how to hold a pencil, never had done it” But Manute soon learned and got his grade average up to scratch and earned his move to the big time.

In the NBA he was an oddity not just for his enormous size but for the statistical fact that he had more blocked shots then points scored. He was the man who Bill Walton said “throws everyone out of sync”. His stats remained average throughout his career. He was conspicuous by his size. But his career was far more than stats. It was about raising money and awareness to the unceasing suffering of his homeland. It was about blazing a trail for Sudan athletes and showing that a man who stood at seven foot seven could survive in the NBA. He passed at the young age of forty-seven on June nineteenth. Commenting on his height he once said “I am never bothered by the fact I am tall. My height is a gift from God. That is what I say. I did not create it. You have to leave with what you are given. Who Knows what God is dreaming for us? There is a reason. Look at what he has dreamed for me”

Perhaps he couldn't’t really play but his height in body and spirit mattered.

Graeme a worthy Major champion.

Pebble Beach is a harsh place, it lures you in with its sloping hills and shushing waves slaloming across its rocks and then spits you out with its murderous greens and needle-eye pins. One by one the superstars of the game fell to the course last night. Els, Woods and Mickelson briefly caught fire but were quickly cooled. The cruel implosion of Dustin Johnson, leading coming into final round was difficult to watch. He seemed in utter control in the previous three rounds but the mental strain of leading a major told. He left the door ajar and an steady Ulster man marched through.

Graeme McDowell never really features on anyone list when it comes to possible major winners. He is the steady Eddie of Irish golf. Padriag Harringtons extraordinary run of major success combined with the pyrotechnics of Rory Mcllroy consigned McDowell to the background.Even his excellent Ryder Cup performance two years ago at Tory Pines has been largely forgotten.

But last night will be remembered and how. It was not just the way he held his head while all around him seemed to be losing theirs. It was his nerves or lack of them. Strolling up the eighteenth McDowell chatted into the camera, wished all the dads a happy fathers day before sinking the two putts to etch his name in history.

Steady joins the superstars.

Mad Ray the man to blame for France.

Schadenfreude, that wonderfully efficient word to describe taking joy in others misfortune was bounded around many a water-cooler or deli-stand this morning. Perhaps not the German form more of an Irish version of Nelson's "Ha Ha!". It is difficult analysing the French from an Irish perspective. The hand of Gaul has joined Saipan in our hellish lexicon and colours any neutral view of them. But there could be no arguing about their defeat to Mexico on Thursday night.

Eccentric would be a mild and frankly bland description of their coach Raymond Domenech. A man known to favour players based on the star signs conjures up team and tactics seemingly based on the paranormal. The decision to go with Nicholas Anelka as a lone striker was baffling. Anelka has been in fine form for Chelsea for the best part of eighteen months now but to use him on his own completely miss-reads him as a player and wastes his talent. Anelka is not the man on the shoulder as he was in his Arsenal days. He now drifts into space, often in midfield, turns and begins to prompt moves.

When he did this on Thursday. France were left playing with a 4-6-0 formation, something pioneered by Luciano Spalletti at Roma and copied by Sir Alex Ferguson at Manchester United. There Totti or Rooney would drop as Anelka did but whereas Roma had Mancini and United Ronaldo to burst into the space vacated by the striker, France had no-one. Govou and Malouda stuck rigidly to the sidelines while Franck Ribery was marooned in midfield.

Domenech had already been castigated for his squad selection but the one he had picked had enough quality to emerge from a gentle group. His demeanour on the sideline, leaning on the dugout unwilling or unable to change the outcome said it all.His improbable run to the final four years ago was instigated by Zinedene Zidane. In the four matches in international competition since France have failed to win, football's version of the gallows awaits. Try and not laugh.

Happily stuck in the middle with these two.

I always found it difficult to warm to Rafael Nadal. His prowess as a tennis player of enormous talent, one who is creative and destructive could never be disputed but the sheer mundane machinery of his game only brought my admiration, never my affection. His slowness in delivering a serve, and his now trademark tugging at his shorts copper fastened my detachment from team Rafa.

At least that is what I’ve been telling myself these past couple of years. For you see the reason I didn’t like Rafa was I was infatuated with Roger. He is the antidote to the Spaniard. A player of such regal grace and charm who represents and embellishes his sport like no other. If you want any proof of that don’t bother consulting the endless records, merely watch the latest Gillette advert where Roger is on his own, the last beacon of sporting morality with the dastardly Tiger presumably off somewhere with one of his disposable blades. He is the greatest of all time yet whenever he meets the devious Nadal on the court he is broken. That jarring sight of Federer’s tears drenching the courts of Melbourne eighteen months ago was a high point in my Nadal irritation. How dare he stop him from creating history? How dare he shatter my illusions of Fed’s invincibility?

It is that simple. It always is. It’s White or Hendry. Tiger or Phil. Ali or Frazier. Individual sports come down to how you perceive a player’s character and how you define their talent. Nadal, to Fed aficionados is a defensive player who relies on athleticism to win. While with each swish of his racket Federer creates a sonnet, Nadal’s stamina makes for a lousy stanza.

Well now I am down the middle. Watching Nadal destroy Robin Soderling yesterday I was struck by the range of ways in which he broke his opponent. I had lost my Fed tinted specs and could finally see what is blindly obvious, that my problem with the bull in the china shop was he smashed the prettiest plate. So join me Rafa-phobes in staying neutral for Wimbledon.

As long as Murray doesn’t win.

A salute to the slowcoaches.

Flicking aimlessly throughout the seemingly infinite satellite channels last Thursday night I eventually was drawn to ESPN and a quick look at the international career of Johan Cryuff. All of his seminal moments in Orange were present and correct. That slaloming run in ‘74 that led to a penalty in the final against West Germany. His trademark turn that would lead to countless imitation but retain the name of its originator and there were numerous other flashes of his dribbles, flicks and of course his passing that was as ubiquitous as the ticking of a clock. What struck me while watching was the pace or lack of it, whenever Cryuff had the ball his world seemed to slow. Defenders snapping at him were reduced to bullets floating past a Matrix-cracking Keanu Reeves. It is an old adage in the game that good players always seem to have time on the ball but this chestnut is losing force as a truth. Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo, two of the best players in the world currently operate in the supersonic. Theirs is the rapier game, a blur of twinkling feet and flashing shots. Even the controllers in the middle as the Italians call them are quick, elusive forces. Xavi and Inestia the two who Sir Alex Ferguson memorably whined could get you on a carousel and leave you dizzy are more darting than deliberate in their distribution. It is a relief than for those of us who still enjoy the old image of a quarter-back with one sock down below his shin-pad, who scoffs at a sprint and strolls with a smile that two fine exponents of the slow will try to navigate a path to glory beginning in a week.

The first is already a world champion and was the pivotal player behind that triumph. It has been somewhat forgotten just how big an impact that Andrea Pirlo had in the last World cup. Zizou’s “moment” and the blockbuster nature of Cannavaros defending, hell even Marco Matarattzi mouth is remembered more than the hypnotic rhythm of Pirlos passing. He was a constant source of fruitful possession. A conductor who made a mediocre orchestra soar. His pass in the semi-final against a typically stubborn Germany finally found space for a goal for Grosso who gave my generation our Tardelli celebration. Pirlo has been fitful in form since that tournament. His Milan have resembled him, some dizzy highs and frightful lows but he has regained his baton for Italia and alongside his carriers De Rossi and Gattuso will attempt to bend the great showpiece to his will once again.

The second will first have to navigate though the minefield of Diego Maradona’s team selection to take his customary place as the fulcrum of whichever side he plays in. Juan Sebastian Veron was until Dimitar Berbatov stole his crown, fleet streets favourite “enigma”. His time in the premiership was mixed with the sublime and the ridiculous but on the international stage where possession is the law he usually thrives. His passing can be devastatingly creative but only when a run or situation demands it. Maradona believes he can be Argentina’s Xavi, the man who can launch Messi. That remains to be seen but one thing is clear, the man they call “the little witch” will try to weave for his team and he will do it like Pirlo, in his own time.

The start.

I cant ever say I was obsessed with the game from the instant I came kicking and most probably screaming into this world. My formative years were spent fretting about the fall of communism and its subsequent impact across Europe, that and my beloved dinky cars. I would sit quietly and spin, roll and sometimes throw the little replicas around the room until they would be lost forever under the bed. I was a good child from all accounts and was easily pleased and fed while remaining docile. That all changed with a bang as I began to rebel against the establishment i.e. the parents and developed into what my grandmother cheerfully described as “a horrible little s***”.

After what I have been assured was the most terrible of twos I began to focus on the age old cowboys and Indians, and although my father insisted I used to set my cowboys up in an attacking four-four-two to slaughter the more defensive-minded Indians who adopted a “what we have we hold” approach all I seem to recall is placing my plastic gunslingers anywhere they may get stood on. Despite my dad’s metronomic insistence that I devout myself to the game my mother said I remained uninterested with an contemptuous look upon my face whenever Dad began to drone.

I can vaguely recall Italia 90 and Ireland’s glorious march to the quarter-finals only to be foiled by a dastardly bald Italian. Despite weeks of celebration and silly hats the round ball had yet to gripe me. I grew weary of the cowboys and instead became infatuated with the teenage mutant ninja turtles. I would tune in religiously every week to see what fiendish plot Shredder had designed only to see it crumble at the hands of those remarkable turtles. Donatello’s meticulous approach to forming and executing a plan was invigorating and I like to think this is where I found my love of football tactics and not the more conventional Subbeto. Such a notion is ridiculous of course but I have devoted a lot of thought wondering if Donatello would have made as a top level manager. I have since concluded that his reliance on a rat as a mentor would ultimately hinder him.

The moment of blissful clarity regarding the beautiful game came when I was aged six, after a routine day of wiping one nose on your sleeve and steeping in a pile of the dogs finest, I climbed into bed, rolled up my official Turtles duvet and readied myself for a another idyllic night of worry free sleep. The type only a kid gets but only an adult can appreciate. Just as I began to doze my stomach erupted in a fit of what can only be described as liquid snot. I rushed to the bathroom and projectile-vomited the contents of my stomach into what looked a frightened toilet. My mother came crashing up the stairs in a DEFCON-ONE panic. All sorts of towels and cloths were thrown over me while my temperature was took and retaken with all kinds of devices until I was left looking like a particularly crazy sheik. I was nursed downstairs and ushered into the sitting room next to the fire. My father dismissed my illness a “one of those bugs” but assured me there was a sizable upside. I could watch match of the day. United had won six-three at Arsenal and the glow that emitted from his eyes was evident to me even in my morbid state. That unmistakably signature tune blared out from the T.V and I decided to rouse myself long enough to watch what all the fuss was about and for some unknown reason it hit me. Believe me I would love to tell you it was Van Basten and his volley, Maradona and his hand or Gullit and his hair but my first real intoxicated moment as a football fan was Lee Sharpe and his Elvis impression. It was like a light had been switched in my head. Pass, move shoot, tackle. It was all so rhythmic, so poised. Was there anything more satisfying then a ball slamming into the net? And seeing the scorer sing into the corner flag after? Immediately after the highlights of the game finished and the esteemed panel of pundits concluded that Lee Sharpe “had a good game” after scoring a hat-trick I turned to my dad to ask him more only to see him staring at me with a delirious look upon him. The game had finally gripped me and he knew it.

Inter stifle Barca to reach Madrid.

There was a moment halfway through the second half of the European Cup semi-final that best encapsulates the devil and the detail of Jose Mourinho. Christian Chivu went down in apparent injury and went to the sideline for treatment. The special one left his technical area to deliver yet more instructions before he was accosted by the referee who reminded Jose to stay in his area. That was the Inter motto for the night.

It started as expected, Barcelona’s famed cerebral game adopted a more scatter gun approach as the rush for the goals that could level the tie began from the first minute. Inter sprung the first surprise with Mourinho replacing Gordan Pandev with Christian Chivu minutes from kick-off. Jose also summoned the sprit of the last man the take Inter to Champions League glory; Helano Herrera in his tactics to stop Barca. Lionel Messi was tapped and hassled every time he touched the ball with the Camp Nou screeching any time an Inter player had the audacity to tackle him. Pedro Rodriguez starting on the left flashed the first shot in anger after three minutes wide of Julio Ceaser’s goal. A crude challenge from Thiago Motta on Messi after ten minutes earned the Brazilian a yellow card, a card that was rendered meaningless by his subsequent red. Inter at this point were reduced to the scavenging of Diego Milito upfront, with Wesley Sneijder tolling manfully but struggling to make a mark. Barca were in complete control in the possession stakes but their clever narrow passing inevitably came unstuck in front of the durable Inter back-four. On two occasion’s Danni Alves managed to scurry free down the right and from the resulting crosses Pedro smashed a volley wide while Ibrahamovic managed to wriggle free from Samuel before being crowded out. The flash point of the red-card occurred soon after. Thiago Motta shielding the ball inside the Barca half raised his hand to the face of Sergio Busquets who fell to the ground dramatically, Motta received an unduly harsh straight red and his subsequent reaction-appearing to throttle Busquets-while not welcome was understandable in the face of such theatrics. Inter resumed their shape soon after and bar one coruscating moment from Messi, a turn and curling shot that was palmed wide, were comfortable going into the break.

The second half followed an eerily similar tone. Barca pressed, played their football and Inter defended with utter ease. Messi was dropping further deep in an attempt to gain some kind of penetrative control on the match but the result was that he and the equally subdued Xavi kept swapping passes with each other right in front of a diligent Estabian Cambiasso.. The woefully ineffective Ibrahamovic was substituted after an hour to give way for Bojan and it was the youngster who had the best chance of the half at that point meeting a lobbed Messi pass before heading wide with ten minutes left. Pep Guardiola now in desperation sent Gerard Pique upfront and it was the centre-half that restored hope for the Catalans when he latched onto a Xavi pass, spun quite wonderfully away from Ivan Cordoba before slamming the ball home. Barcelona now only needing one with five minutes to go suddenly began to find space. Both Messi and Xavi had shot’s saved by Caesar and deep in stoppage time Bojan had the ball in the net but it was disallowed for a handball in the build up.

That may have been harsh but no more so than the sending off. Inter saw out the game and had the prize of Madrid. Barca put on the water hoses at full time to douse the Italian celebration but one suspects Jose could have stifled them too if he wanted. He ran onto the turf at full-time, that is his area.

Europe awaits its blockbuster.

The mere prospect of Barcelona against Inter Milan in the semi-final of the champions league should be enough to sate any rabid connoisseur of the game but the sheer abundance of little duels, duels with bite and a history that form the sub-plot to this game give it the air of a blockbuster. How about one brother marking another? Gabi Milito, the durable Barca centre-half must deal with Inter's main poacher Diego. What about Zlatan Ibrahamovic going back to his old stomping ground? Or Samuel Eto'o back at his, eager to prove to Pep Guardiola that he was wrong in discarding him. Even Maxwell, Barca's quiet left-back is playing against his former club. These clubs have even met this year twice in the group stages. A bore draw in Italy was followed by a comfortable Barca victory. That, though is no form guide. The Inter of today are a different more believing beast. One that will not be afraid of Barca. All these sub-plots though, merely form the crust to the meaty center. The meeting of the special one and Jose Mourinho.

In six meetings against teams managed by Mourinho, Lionel Messi has failed to score. There are mitigating circumstances for this. Messi was a teenager when he faced Jose's Chelsea. He was also the reason Aisner Del Horno was sent off in one of those encounters. In his meetings with Inter this season Messi wore the look of an prized endurance runner keeping it cool for the opening laps and the salient point about records of course is that they are meant to be broken. Remember before Rome? Messi had gone eleven without scoring against English teams and couldn't score a header apparently. Mourinho will have a plan and it will have to be a clever one. Inter have no-one in the Cole or Evra mould to shadow Messi but they do have some grizzled South Americans who know all about him.

Of course Barca are more than Messi and Inter pose some serious threats themselves. Wesley Snejider's performance at Stanford Bridge was arguably the finest in this season's champions league bar the flea's against Arsenal. Milito, Pandev and Eto'o form a quick, intelligent triumvirate up front. Lucio has been the outstanding defender in the competition and in Julio Ceaser they have a goalkeeper of genuine class. Mourinho may follow the blueprint marked out by Espanol on Saturday. Press Barca, make Xavi work for his passes and try to choke any space around Messi. Barca only have a plan A. It just happens to be one of the finest ever seen. It will be interesting to see if Guardiola opts for Bojan or Ibrahamovic. The Swede is just back from injury and his more physical approach would suit Lucio who sometimes struggles against quicker more nimble attackers.

Like so many classic movies the setting is superb, the journey-for bus-bound Barca at least-is arduous. Brothers and comrade's will do battle while a general will try and stop the seemingly unstoppable. The Catalans to prevail but with a bloodied nose.

Team of the year

It is the award season after all so in that spirit here are the best eleven I have seen.

1: Pepe Reina: The one consistent source of brilliance for Liverpool this season. The Spaniard combines quick reflex's with a steadying influence on his defence. Add the fact he is probably the best penalty stopper in the world and his outstanding distribution and one could be forgiven for pondering if he should even replace Casillas in the summer.

2:Branislav Ivanovic: far from a vintage year at right back but the Serbian started the season well for Chelsea and has continued in that vein. For a natural centre-half his crossing and ability to get forward is up there with anyone in the league and is a threat from set-piece's

3: Patrice Evra: The buccaneering Manchester United man has dipped somewhat recently but that can be excused based on his lung-bursting efforts over the season. Consistently excellent.

4: Thomas Vermaelen: The Belgian has been a revelation at the heart of the Arsenal defence. Strong in the air, subtle on the ground, his prowess in the opposition box marks him out as a defender of genuine international quality.

5: Roger Johnson: His partner Scott Dann is unlucky to miss out but the former Cardiff man edges it. A stout, reliable defender with tremendous positional sense.

6: Darren Fletcher: The once derided "Scottish player" at Old Trafford has become an integral part in the champion's midfield. Not just a ball of ceaseless energy, Fletcher is adept in possession and is starting to look more comfortable in front of goal.

7: Cesc Fabregas: Far and away the most technically gifted midfielder in the Premiership yet it is the Catalan's ability to inspire and cajole a young Arsenal side that has stood out this year. A constant source of goals and assists.

8: Florent Malouda: The player seen at Lyon and glimpsed with France has finally found his feet in London. Pace, power and a devastating left foot.

9: Carlos Tevez: Welcome to Manchester indeed. Scoring goals while the work rate has remained.

10: Wayne Rooney: His importance to United has been brutally demonstrated in his absence. Footballer of the year.

11: Dider Drogba: Looked a beaten man under Scolari, but the goals and brute force have again flourished under Ancelotti.




Alternative team: Schwarzer, Corluka, Hangeland, Vidic, Cole, Pienaar, Lampard, Song, Modric, Bent, Zamora.

Louis ready to reign over Fergie.

The Allianz Arena glowed a malevolent red, two genuine greats stood opposite. Munich and United, two names that will echo each other through the ages. Van Gaal and Ferguson, two belligerent, brilliant managers had deployed their players onto the stage. It started with a bang, a long hopeful punt up the field was chased and won by the now revitalised Nani. Bayern's Argentinian centre-half Martin DeMichelis rushed out to meet the Manchester United man and promptly cut him in two. From the resulting free-kick DeMichelis completed the start from hell by slipping to leave Wayne Rooney with the simplest of chances. The camera cut to Van Gaal, He stared straight ahead with a slight twitch of his head. One could imagine him trying to suppress the rage within. For a man who has made discipline an art, this was a bird dumping on a fresh canvass.

However Van Gaal and Bayern re-grouped and took a deserved victory. The wily Dutchman short his best player in Arjen Robben pressed United's midfield high up the pitch. DeMichelis, normally a midfielder was stepping out from the back with ease thus squeezing the space in front of Wayne Rooney. It was a passable impression of Barcelona's destruction of United in Rome last May. Ferguson was flustered, he sent on Dimitar Berbatov and Antonio Valencia to try and regain some semblance of possession yet they actually ceded more to Bayern in the closing stages. The scoreline is certainly still manageable for United but in the absence of Wayne Rooney they look short of inspiration. They need to be quicker and perhaps more direct in possession to put pressure on a Bayern back line that despite Van Gaal's best efforts to conceal are vulnerable, particularly to pace. One senses Bayern will score though and if they do it would be a brave man to back against them advancing.

Messi is magic but not yet immortal.

The torrent of superlatives that have engulfed Lionel Messi this past week have surpassed anything that has been said about the Argentinian before. They have arrived like a twitching, effusive crowd bellowing them out one at a time, each trying to upstage the last. Sid Lowe of the Guardian believed only profanity could best sum up his genius, My immediate reaction when he wrestled clear on the halfway line last Sunday before shimming, scuttling and then rattling was to lean back from the edge of my seat- I could not remember edging there and puffing out my cheeks. There were no words.

That, however is never much of a problem for the Barcelona president Joan Larporta. In the aftermath of Messi's wonder show at Zaragoza, the soon to be ousted Laporta crowed that Messi is "the best player in football history. To me next in line is Johan Cruyff and Maradona." This of course should be taken with a large dollop of salt. The two players Laporta mentions also conveniently played for Barca. He omits Pele and Real's De Steafano. But perhaps he should be cut some slack for displaying child-like glee. But now the question is being asked. Does Messi already deserve his place on the pantheon alongside the greats?

The answer is no, not yet. Messi is the best player in the world at the moment, despite the presence of a bulldog named Rooney. He is player who bully's little teams and is the difference against the big ones. He combines feather and force. But to establish himself in history he must dominate in South Africa. It is the one flaw on the masterpiece. He looks ordinary for Argentina. That is not all his fault, the supporting cast, the rabid expectation and the lets say eccentricities of the coach all combine to render the best to look like the rest. But Messi must adapt in South Africa. He must find his role in blue and white. He must inspire the way Maradona did in Mexico. Do that and the superlatives become redundant. The greatest shall suffice.

Get rid of it!

It’s the smell that gets me, the deep heat, unwashed socks, and the stale stench of alcohol. This is my dressing room. A nod here and a wink there. Elbows digging into sides as last nights events are cruelly recounted. The young-fella’s furiously digging into their gear looking for that other shin pad. The scroungers sheepishly hidden in the corner avoiding the ref’s fee. Boots slam off the floor leaving clunks of mud from the week previous. Debates raging, penalty or not? “He’s a f***ing diver and that’s it!”

Thunder footsteps tapping the sorry excuse for a room. “Honestly the f***ing car has more leg space” Meet Trevor, full-back occasional centre-half and warmly referred to as a hatchet man. The old adage of a player’s second touch being a tackle must have been coined about Trev. He shows up though. At the hole in the wall or the door if we are being technical is Brian the keeper more commonly known as “Ballsy” for reasons unknown. He is the model professional. He sticks to a strict diet of ten pints of Heineken the night before allayed to a vein popping breakfast roll an hour ahead of kick off and he smokes. He smokes going up in the car, he smokes before the game and he will doubtlessly smoke at half-time.

Puffing away with him is Mick “the bull” Hart. He is unquestionably the worst footballer in the history of the game. A man so hopelessly inept at even the simple things that it is a cause for celebration whenever he successfully completes a throw-in. He will run all day long however and is brave to boot. Invaluable qualities in the jungle of the Sunday leagues. Playing alongside me at centre-half today will be Connor. “Roundy” would be a succinct summary of his physique. His positioning is his strong point the forever tells us. One memorable match last season Connor and Bull were partners at the back, having cleared a corner and roared “Get Out!” to all and sundry Connor and Bull calmly raised their hands indicating offside as the ball was swung back in. Vidic and Ferdinand they are not. The two were astonished as the ball floated over their heads and onto the onrushing striker who coolly dispatched it into the net. They were standing on the six-yard line.

The creative force in the team is Figs. No idea again with the nickname I just always assumed it was something to do with the biscuits. He can pick a pass but has the movement of a walrus and the motivation to match. The lungs of the team are Jimmy. He is the lungs because frankly he can run without the assistance of an oxygen tank for more than five minutes. On the right hand side is Curtin, so named because well that’s his surname and his first name is Jimmy but since Lungs was here first the surname was used. He is the youngest and he can actually play, in fact the only real discernible tactics we employ is getting the ball to Curtin. Failing that get the ball to Figs and hope he can stay upright long enough to get the ball to Curtin. On the left is Connell. The reason he is on the left? He is left footed. A priceless commodity to have. Our deadly strike-force consists of Denis or “Ginola” so named for his lethal step overs and his worth- it hair. His partner is “Kelso” with a devastating ratio of three goals in over forty games he provides the ammo for our assault on the title.

Me well I’m Paul or Ring but usually referred to as “Ringer”. The imaginative streak in the side extends to the clever nicknames. I’m sitting chatting to Trev explaining the basics of ball control when in strides the gaffer. Liam Foley founded our football club and through hours of painstaking lobbying and cajoling built us a wonderful pitch complete with dressing room with plenty of leg-room. He moves to the middle of the floor and names the team. Quite why he felt he needed to do that seeing as there is only eleven of us here is his business.

He stresses that he wants to see football being played. Ball on the ground, plenty of movement and I am heartened by this. We usually lose anyway so why not go down playing the way the game should be played? We trot out onto the pitch and my studs immediately squelch into a pile of cow shit, just above that is more shit until I make out the faint sliver of a white line marking the pitch. We line out immaculate in our four-four-two formation. I always grin at this point knowing it’s the only time we will all stay in our positions except for Figs of course. Our esteemed opponents strip off their smart tracksuits and kick off. Both sides labour around the field like cows searching for any spot of grass. The ball rolls to Figs who is standing on the half way line. He looks up and plays a casual pass out to Curtin who is quickly closed down. Curtin, under pressure plays the ball towards his goal along the sideline to me where I have made myself available; I calmly take a touch and look around to pick a pass. I have all the time in the world to assess my options when a storm of spit and yell flash into my ears from my immediate right. “For f**** sake! GET RID OF IT!” it’s the gaffer and football has been abandoned.

North or South? The player divide.

The steady trickle of talent flowing from North to South in Ireland has caused divide on both sides of the border. Shane Duffy has joined the likes of Darron Gibson and Marc Wilson in declaring for the Republic having initially played for the North at under-age level. The former Republic manager Brian Kerr has criticised the practise of recruiting Northern players, arguing that it is " unfair, seedy and predatory to have such a policy towards a neighbour"

While it is indisputable that Northern Ireland have meagre resources compared even to the Republic, the fact is that it should always remain the players decision over who he wishes to play for. In the same article Kerr says that the declaration of Aiden McCeady and James McCarthy to play for Ireland is different to that of the likes of Duffy because Scotland have a greater pool to choose from and that "they don't share the same island as us". Anyone with even the most casual of interest in Scottish football at the moment could remind Kerr the threadbare nature of the talent currently emerging in Scotland and what difference does a few miles of water make in this argument?

Given the furore created over Chelsea's poaching of Gael Kakuta's, Kerr does make one salient point in his assertion that "direction and policy is required on such a sensitive issue as poaching our next door neighbour’s best players after they have been reared and groomed in that environment" Northern Ireland will not be compensated financially or otherwise by Duffy's departure. Should he and the others who have defected play in a major championship for the Republic, that becomes a huge incentive for any Northern youngster coming through their ranks wishing to play on the biggest stage.

The court of arbitration for sport based in Switzerland will need to impose a more strict and clearly defined criteria for switching from North to South. That, however is a veritable legal and ethical minefield. The player's right to choose has to remain in stone but Nothern Ireland also need to be protected. Can one happen without the other? Even the Swiss may have to take sides.

An ode to the Bull.

In comparison with his more illustrious colleagues, John Hayes does not gather as much ink as perhaps he should. On the eve of his hundredth cap for Ireland however many have eulogised about his career and hinted at the end of it. Praise, though, has never been effusive for the Bruff native. Many have questioned his scrummaging, others his ball-carrying but his place has never been in doubt for Ireland or Munster.

There are many wondrous moments usually dominated by Paul O'Connell on match-day in green or red. Modern day camera's in slo-mo and HD get up close to the line-out and capture an athlete straining every sinew to nick opposition ball. The camera never tells the whole story however. Look below O'Connell, the man who gives Superman his wings is Hayes. His line-out lifting is the best in the world. A one man fork-lift who launches his second-row into the heavens. It is an attribute that should have been used by the Lions in the summer.

In all probability. Hayes will lead out Ireland this afternoon. Taking his place front and centre before disappearing into the coalface. That is where he is happiest. The man down below, turning the wheel that makes the carousal go round.

Maverick man Berbatov continue's to divide

There are few player's plying their trade in Europe that polarize opinion as much as Dimitar Berbatov. For some, he is a maverick talent, capable of abrupt poetry in the midst of the maelstrom that is the English premiership. For others his inability to garnish his natural talent with diligent work renders him a liability. The assertion has also been made that a side such as United are at their most potent when playing with pace, highlighted by their scatter-gun assault on Arsenal two weeks ago. With Wayne Rooney at his bulldog best, supported by Nani and Ji-sung Park, Arsenal were rendered helpless by the force of United's counter-attacking. The argument goes that a player such as Berbatov does not possess the pace needed to supplement such a game and there is merit in this. Berbatov is at his most effective playing at the edge of the box, using his balance and natural control to find space where others cannot. His game is not built for the counter attack but United need more than one way to play and the Bulgarian offers them one.

As Sir Alex Ferguson was closing in on Berbatov he remarked that “We have made a bid for one player who would enhance us a great deal.” That he believed Berbatov would enhance the then champions of Europe shows just how highly Ferguson rated him. A plan must have been hatched in Ferguson's mind to utilise the unique gifts of the Bulgarian, especially having watched him demonstrate those gifts against United. The comparison with that other Ferguson project; Seba Veron is valid. Both were mercurial players whose talents need to be channeled properly. Perhaps Ferguson, aware of his failure to evolve his side after the triumph of 99, felt that he needed a different threat. But many at the time of the signing wondered with Carlos Tevez, Wayne Rooney and Cristiano Ronaldo all still at United, was it a star too much? Berbatov, despite some sublime moments and a decent goal return struggled to fit into the side. This season was suppose to herald a new beginning for him and despite already equalling his goal tally in the league from last season with eleven games left, He has yet to convince all that he is an integral part of the side. So is he failing United? or are United failing him?

The answer lies somewhere in the middle. There can be no doubt that Berbatov can be his own worst enemy at times. For every hoof in the sky plucked with imperious ease, there are self serving flicks to no-one. The fact that no match report goes by without mentioning his name along with languid tells it own story about his work-rate. But there are other factors in his difficulty. He has been carrying a well-documented knee injury and the infrequent nature of his appearances based on injury or formation stops any momentum he may have built up. The inconsistency of United in general has unhinged him and the lack of any patience from the stands cannot help anyone who's confidence is falling. It may not work for Dimitar Berbatov at Manchester United, but if his injury subsides, if he finally finds his place in the side, and if in one moment in one big game he becomes the difference, the maverick can shine. A lot of imponderables, but it was ever thus for United's number nine.

Jose's last stand for Calcio

Luciano Moggi may have a reputation in football the equivalent of Floyd Landis in cycling but he will forever have his finger on the pulse when it comes to the Italian game. Before the resumption of Europe's premier club competition he commentated that " "We will see that calcio is not competitive on the international stage. We will be lucky if one side makes it through to the next round." Now it may be reasonable to assume that had his beloved Juve been involved than his opinion could differ but across Europe esteemed commentators are sounding the knell for Italian hope's in the champions league. The opening ties in the last sixteen would, it seem to favour that opinion. Milan briefly sizzled before succumbing to a Wayne-Rooney inspired Manchester United while Fiorentina's indignation at losing in Munich to a Miroslav Klose goal that was clearly offside was well merited but their display did not smack of possible winners. It is the cream, the team who collects scudetto's for fun that Italian hope's rest.

Jose Mourinho's brief upon taking the manager job at Inter Milan was just that: brief. Win the champion's league was the resounding message from the club's somewhat eccentric owner Massimo Morratti. Inter have swept to the scudetto for the last four years and are romping away with it again this season. But as ever with the neazurri, inconsistency has plagued them in Europe. Barcelona were merely shadow-boxing with them at the San Siro in September and swatted them aside at the Camp Nou. It took some late goals in Kiev and a difficult win over Rubin Kazan to edge them into the last sixteen where they will meet Mourinho's former employer's, Chelsea. The Londoner's are comfortable favourite's heading into the tie but that does a dis-service to Inter's quality and the Mourinho factor.

Nobody knows this Chelsea team better than the so-called special one. It is still essentially his team. Only Nicolas Anelka and Branislav Ivanovic will be the two most notable player's involved for Chelsea that did not play under Mourinho. Nobody should be better equipped to deal with the savage subtlety of Dider Drogba than a centre-half coached by Mourinho. His tempestuous relationship with Carlo Ancholotti will only sharpen his focus. Chelsea deserve their favourite's tag. They have been the bridesmaid's of the champions league for so long now that the accepted wisdom is that they will eventually crack it, but Inter with Jose in the dugout and calcio's pride at stake could well qualify from this most intriguing of ties.