Capital gains in Washington.

David Gill estimates there are nine million Manchester United fans in the United States, a small percentage of the supposed 333 million worldwide. No-one knows for sure how United calculate these figures but one suspects the dictionary definition of fanatic is not applied.

The U.S is the new world when it comes to football and naturally United are at the forefront of exploring it. The game will never take hold of the country as fiercely as it does in Europe, but it has emerged from the wilderness to impact ever so slightly on the vast U.S sports landscape.

United love it there. The training facilities are first-class, the players are much more comfortable than they are in the Far East and as Gill so eloquently put it “Such trips offer the club the opportunity to work with our commercial partners in raising our profile in this part of the world”

They did try. Nemanja Vidic and Rio Ferdinand were dispatched to the top of the Sears Tower in Seattle for a coin toss while the Empire state building glowed red after Michael Owen flicked a switch. United scored a glut of goals and generally entertained as they dispatched the cream of the MLS. Barcelona in Washington was the end of the tour and its grandest point.

The re-run of that raw night at Wembley when 777 Catalan passes destroyed United registered with even the most disinterested in the U.S capital. Your intrepid Red News reporter touched down in D.C the day United were blitzing the MLS all-stars. One particularly chatty cab driver enquired “I hear that people are actually going to a soccer game in D.C Saturday night?” I explained that it was between the two biggest teams in the world. He smiled and didn’t agree.

The following day I ambled down to the Ritz Carlton just a block away from my more modest hotel, to attend Barca’s press conference. The English press pack were in attendance to gobble any morsel on the Fabregas to Barca story but were left disappointed by the diplomacy of Gerard Pique.

The one that got away was as ever, very complementary about United.


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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 wheater she felt sorry for the incessant rain that was pouring down on 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 Catalan and Madrid powers in Spanish football. 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 Champion’s league in a glittering three year period punctuated by the brilliance of Juan Carlos Valeron.

Depor and Valeron meekly slipped away from La Liga last season, and the memories of them toppling Spain’s big guns faded with them. It now seems a mere myth that a club like Depor once smashed the established order.

The top table in Spain used to be able to accommodate more than Barca and Madrid. But no longer. The chastening chasm between the big two and the rest appears to be widening even greater this summer.

We all marvel and appreciate we live in blessed times when watching Barcelona, while the box-office element of Real will always be there. But where is the competition? Athletico have lost David De Gea and Sergio Aguero. Valencia are forever in limbo. Villarreal have clung onto Giuseppe Rossi and made a canny capture in Christian Zapata but nobody expects the yellow submarine to emerge at the top.

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. Yes their success is built upon the ideological rock of La Masia but let’s not gloss over the extraordinary spending that the Catalans have committed to in the last five years.

Rather depressingly it may be the new money of Malaga that registers a blip in the La Liga radar this season. But as they are likely to find out brutally in their opening tie with Barca, fusing a new team takes time. Gelling one that can take on the dominant duopoly will take years.

The new television deal, signed at the beginning of the year only cements the position at the top. The others will survive, but they will not thrive. The title will be decided by two games while the rest will jostle for the bronze medal.

Yet we can still hope that someone somewhere will put it up to those two. As the Galician lady said “F*** them”. It never seems to rain on them.

He scored goals; He didn’t care about being adored.

The retirement of Paul Scholes was greeted with an almost unanimous sadness and widespread respect for a career that encompassed technical mastery and an utterly professional attitude.

Selections of the ginger prince’s finest moments were pored over. Was it Bradford for you? Barca? How about Villa? When the ball parachuted from the sky and Scholes sent it rocketing into the net.

The great and good of the world’s game lined up to eulogize about the little man. Sergio Busquets, Lionel Messi, Andres Iniesta and Xavi literally lined up after the European cup final to get his shirt. Messi explained how Scholes was an example used at Barca’s famed La Masia academy. Zidane of course, once described him as the most complete midfielder of his generation. Samir Nasri aptly called him the English Zizou. A favourite tribute of mine came from the less celebrated Dave Kitson. Kitson rose from the Sunday leagues straight to the Premier League in a short period. He explained that he didn’t find any real difference in talent until opening day at Old Trafford “and Paul Scholes is pinging the ball around like it’s an extension of his body”

Johnny Giles, a pundit who loathes praising pretty much anyone never missed an opportunity to proclaim Scholes as a great player. Every teammate said they would want Scholes on their side in training because it nearly guaranteed a win.

The above isn’t a bad list of references for a footballer’s C.V yet Scholes ludicrously, was not universally rated. One magazine in particular last month said his retirement was greeted with unprecedented hyperbole. That Scholes had been indulged in recent years by Sir Alex. That he had been carried by younger, fitter teammates and was constantly caught in possession. The magazine in question purports to be a half-decent one but the article in question was anything but.

Yet there is sizable percentage of the footballing paternity that just didn’t get Scholes. For all of Fleet Street’s tributes this past month, the fact remains that Scholes never won the footballer of the year award. Go back through the references above. The problem was not confined to journalists. Scholes also never won a PFA award.

The fact that the verdict of him as a great player was not a unanimous one is down to two things. Cultural and period. Jonathan Wilson begins his seminal book on tactics “Inverting the pyramid” in a bar in Lisbon during Euro 2004. There has been speculation that a group of senior players have forced the then England manager Sven Goran Erikson to change England’s formation to a traditional 4-4-2. One English journalist remarks that the formation doesn’t matter; they are all the same players. Wilson and co are incredulous; an Argentinean next to him says tactics are all that matters.

He was wrong of course. There is far, far more to the game than tactics but Erikson’s decision or rather the cabal of players decision is a damning one for England. Paul Scholes, left midfield. The lung busting runs of Frank Lampard and Steven Gerrard have always been deemed more important than the Scholes possession game. Gerrard and Lampard played together for far too long. The fact that they were too similar was only half the problem. The other half was they couldn’t keep the ball. Fast forward seven years and Jack Wilshere is the first name on the England team-sheet. He is praised for his abilty to keep the ball, to dictate the game. That is what’s important now.

It has taken Spain and Barcelona to keep the ball to teach us all the value of players who do so. This applies more in England but not exclusively. Xavi is now recognised as the finest midfielder in the world. Yet as he explained he was playing the same way years ago when he was admired but not a modern midfield deity as he is today. Some in Spain felt he was too small to play for the national side. He contemplated leaving and joining United, the club against whom he made his Barcelona debut in 1998. He started on the bench and watched Scholes score to put United 2-0 up. “If he was Spanish” one maestro said of another “he might be appreciated more”.

The period of English dominance in the Champions league was defined by power off the pitch, and power on it. European sides could not live with the raw surge of the Premier League game. Nimble technical Europeans were blown away by the likes of Michael Essien and Gerrard. Pace and power are the overwhelming choices when discussing the attributes of the Premier league. The honest plodder who thunder’s into challenges, who bares his teeth and whose shorts are never white are the symbol of the world’s most competitive league. Witness the Football writer’s award winner this season; Scott Parker. A middling, ordinary player who found his level with West Ham yet was deemed by the writing alumni as the best player in the country.

The culture though, thankfully has changed. If Paul Scholes was in his pomp now, the hyperbole would be far greater than what supposedly followed his retirement. Think of the fuss made of Jack Wilshere and then imagine if he could score goals. Spain’s success played its part in the change but in Premier League terms it was United and Scholes who broke the mould. Jose Mourinho’s Chelsea embodied the new money Premier League. The shameless power of Lampard, Essien et al rendered the rest obsolete. But Sir Alex put Michael Carrick and Paul Scholes in midfield and trusted them to keep the ball. The result was arguably the best of all United’s title wins and certainly our best football since the treble.

The league has wised up. We always had Scholes and will hopefully replace him with someone similar. Tottenham for the moment have Modric. Liverpool had Alonso and their slide coincided with his departure. Arsenal have Wilshere. Hiddenk’s Chelsea will want their own controller. The culture and period in which Paul Scholes was in his prime prevented him from universal acclaim. Like a lot of great artists, he was un-appreciated by some in his own time.

Not that it will bother him. He was out of the country when announcing his retirement. Reluctantly, he did some interviews and said he hoped that Cantona’s appearance in his testimonial would take the spotlight off him.

Throughout his career he did his best to avoid that spotlight and made it as easy as dropping his shoulder and avoiding the Scott Parker’s of this world. Maybe that was the problem. A few more interviews, maybe the odd advert and the plebs would get the message. He won’t read the tributes. He won’t care about the criticism. He merely played. In a 24/7 world when everything is dissected, where opinions are formed instantly maybe his disdain for the media ensured those not of a red persuasion would never be convinced.

No matter. Those mesmerising moments that he has left us stand as the pillar to his greatness. From subtle flicks to violent volleys, from scooping the ball over Nesta, to heading it past Given, his is a beacon that will shine as long as a ball is kicked in M16 ORA.

Hyperbole? No, just Scholes.

This article first appeared in Red News Fanzine. Go to www.rednews.co.uk for details.

America's game can be anybody's.

The acclaimed Sports Illustrated writer Joe Posnanski spent a major part of last month going around the United States trying to figure out the everlasting appeal of Baseball in the country.

Posnanski spoke to all sorts, saw a few games and was present at Derek Jeter's 3000th hit and put Baseball's eternal appeal down to a lot of factors. But one above all; fun.

Ambling up to Nationals park last Sunday to watch the home team take on the New York Mets, it was hard to disagree with Joe. My better half had zero experience of baseball but after ten minutes at the ballpark she was proudly displaying her Nationals jersey and feverishly waving her foam finger. It was an witheringly hot day. Our seats were three rows back to the right of the bullpen. A reward for being frugal the night before.

As with any game seen live, it quickly shapes into your own experience. It was signature Sunday so stars like Ryan Zimmerman were happily signing autographs at different sections of the crowd. We chose the cool shade ahead of a scribble pre-game though.

The seats were boiling hot. The free programme I had gotten was rapidly placed between me and the seat to prevent any 3rd degree burns. A father and his three sons took their positions ahead of us and spent the whole game cheering on the Nats, and hoping for a foul ball. Hot dog vendors and Beer men constantly advertised their goods; "Don't be a meany, buy a weiny" "I got beer here, Miller, Bud and er, what is this? Amstiel light!"

The typical baseball experience is said to involve beer but I settled for copious amounts of water to combat the sun.

The first six innings came and went with mistakes, good catches and decent pitching. We were watching two average sides slug it out for mere respectability. The sixth inning came alive with a run for the Nats to take the lead. But that was not the significant event of the sixth inning. The three sons ahead of us had finally persuaded a player to toss them a ball. He nonchalantly looped it towards them and all three stuck out their gloves to catch. The little group around us were watching this and only this and there was an audible gasp as one glove hit another and the ball apologetically limped into the bullpen. Tears were spilled and blame was laid between all three brothers. They will be talking about that one for a while.



The Nats were two up by the time Scott Hairston stepped to the plate. He then did something magnificent. There are many that would dispute that hitting a baseball is the hardest thing in sports, but it is damn hard so when someone launches one into the stands it is a special thing to behold. Hairston crunched one over centre field to leave one in it at the top of the ninth.

By now the band of brothers had left their seats, their relationship indelibly changed and a particularly loud Mets fan had taken them. He insisted on standing despite being in the front row and so was a giant egg shape on my otherwise perfect view. Now I'm not one for complaining about standing. A football match in particular is not an event for sitting but this was different. He irked me even more by shouting at security staff and generally giving off the impression of being well, a Mets fan. The narrative was set. My previous Swiss like neutrality was obliterated. I wanted the Nats to win. I wanted him to slump in the very same seats that a boy's dream of a Nats foul ball was crushed. I wanted justice damn it.

The Scott Hairston stepped up. A home run is no longer a wonderful thing, not when its accompanied by this Mets fan hollering. It sailed away and we were level.Bottom of the ninth.

The Nats though, rallied and managed to put runners on second and third and after Ian Desmond returned a pitch to the Mets struggling Bobby Parnell, the game was up. He couldn't get there. Rick Anikel headed home for the run and the win. The Mets fan slumped in his stolen seat while I stood up and hollered.

We drifted away after. Happy and sun burnt. The better half turned to me at the metro station. "That was fun wasn't it?" It was, it really was.