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.