#why is football so league focused? Like you all criticise the US for playing only amongst itself and ignoring actual world series' and then

[aeolianblues]

Ben Stokes opted out of the Premier League to 'prolong his England career', England football MNT players could never

[baz-you-numpty]

Giving In to Snow

Part 2 of my eighth year Aridante inspired fic, courtesy of @snowbazzled ‘s post here

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

26th February, Baz It's Wednesday afternoon, which means two hours of games. We're on the football unit at the moment, which is fine by me. I can play football. I do play football. I'm on the school team. Simon Snow can't play football. But he does. You have to. Six half terms, six sports. Hockey and rugby in winter, football and tennis in the spring term, and then track and cricket in summer. And it's the first half term of the spring term, so all the boys play football. That includes Simon. Simon Snow plays football like he does everything else: chaotically. He's playing skins today, although within five minutes his entire torso is covered in mud. A running mess of freckled limbs. Admittedly, he can kick a ball better than some, but Simon's run-and-see-what-happens approach is perhaps one better suited to rugby. 

I watch him closely throughout the game, catching his eye a couple of times when neither of us are near the ball. He raises his eyebrows each time as if trying to threaten me, but there's nothing in it, really. He does get one goal, which I try not to be impressed by. I score five. Snow bashes into me on the way into the showers.

"Fucking ruthless today," he says, breathing heavily. "Didn't feel like going easy in this game?"

I don't say anything while the air is filled with the clatter of twenty boys kicking their studs against the wall.

Once inside, I wait until I reach my peg before replying.

"No room for going easy in the National Champions' League."

He hits me around the head with his sweaty towel and I break into a smile. I desperately want to hit him back. Simon We play chess again tonight, even though it's a Wednesday. I'm actually getting pretty good. Well, relatively-speaking. I still haven't won a game yet, but at least he doesn't have to keep picking me up on what can go where. Tonight, not for the first time, Baz pulls out a bottle of some kind of spirit. The first time he did it, he poured us both a glass without saying anything and they sat there throughout the whole game untouched. Then, once he'd won, we drank them and went to bed. I'm not really sure why. It was only a small amount and it was sort of orangey coloured and sharp, and burned my throat on the way down. Tonight the liquid is clear and I'm pretty sure it's vodka. Alcohol is way out of my depth. All I've drunk before is a couple of ciders with Gareth and Rhys, and a glass of prosecco at Agatha's house last Christmas which I didn't even like. But I'm pretty sure this is vodka, and I have no idea what it's doing here or how Baz procured it. But I let him set out a couple of shot glasses on the edge of our levitating board. I don't say anything. We're playing on my bed tonight. Once everything is set up, Baz says to me, "Every time one of us gets in check, we have to take a shot."

"Then I'm going to end up way more drunk than you."

"So play better."

"You have more experience."

"With chess or drinking?"

"Where did you even get this?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"It's Wednesday."

"Do you want to play or not?" Baz is freshly showered. His hair is hanging in wet strands around his face. He's wearing silk pyjamas and the buttons are done up uncharacteristically sloppily. By that, I mean several remain undone. And he's sitting on my bed and trying to get me to take shots with him over a game of chess. My mind flicks back to him on the pitch; so focused, such precision. I can't imagine him in any state of intoxication. I lean back on my legs and think of meeting his eye across the football field. What was in that look? "Okay," I tell him, "you're on." Because he is intoxicating. Baz Simon does up his game. I can't tell whether it's because of the risk of vodka, or because he's just improving, but the first check doesn't come until eight minutes in, and, remarkably, it's me. I take my drink with no shame, tipping my glass to him before I down it. I don't even flinch. He was right about the experience. I've got three years alone in the catacombs over him. Simon's first check follows shortly, and much less subtly. I pour him a glass. I only give him half. I don't know if he's ever drunk before, other than the odd scotch I've given him in here once or twice, and I don't want to overwhelm him. He takes it from me confidently, and narrows his eyes at me as he puts the glass to his lips. They squint even more as he downs it, and a second later he's grimacing and making a ridiculous noise.

"God, that is disgusting!"

"You get used to it."

"People do this for fun?"

"It's actually largely sugar."

"Bullshit."

"No, sugar."

Then he looks at me like he's surprised I just made a joke. He probably is. I am, a little bit. Then he laughs, and it's a proper laugh, right from the stomach. His freckles all crinkle into each other, and I melt a little bit inside because I did that to him. We play properly for another ten minutes or so. Long enough that Simon is about to take his fourth shot, though I'm still on one. He's already looking pretty gone, and hasn't stop giggling since his third.  

"You take this one for me," he says, holding out his glass.

"Take it for you?" I smile because his cheeks are bright red. "That's not how it works. I got you in check."

He pouts and suddenly I'm on fire because wow.

"Don't you want to help a brother out?"

I laugh at him. "No."

He pouts again and holds out his shot glass. I half fill it again and he drinks it and hisses once more at the taste. "What do you get for check... check, check... check mate, Bazzy?"

He looks proud of himself for finally remembering the word, and fuck it, he just called me Bazzy. I take the bottle from him and take a long swig. Enough for three checks, at least. Simon watches me with big eyes.

"Bazzy," he says, as if only just realising. "Bazzy," and then he laughs. I feel the alcohol getting to my blood, feel myself become gradually less attached, reality slipping more and more by the second, and not in a bad way. "Si-mon." I say slowly. And then we both laugh. And Simon falls over onto his pillow so I fall down next to him but I'm still holding the vodka and Simon takes it from me and puts it on his bedside table. "Okay, enough of that," he says, suddenly sounding much more sober. "I've got another game."

"Is it a drinking game?"

"It's a getting-to-know-you game.

"Okay."

"We have to take it in turns to tell each other things the other doesn't know about us." Except he actually says "turk it in tanes" and only realises halfway through, so the whole sentence takes a while to come out.

"Okay," I agree, "but if the other person does already know, they get to take a shot."

"Okay," he grins. It doesn't take any convincing. "You first."

"I have a sister called Mordelia."

"That could've been two. One: I have a sister. Two: My sister is called Mordelia," he criticises.

"Whatever. Did you know that?"

"No," he says. "Although I think I did once." I look at him quizzically. "Shitty upbringing discussion," he offers, slurring slightly and waving a hand vaguely. "But I forgot it again. My turn. My favourite food is sour cherry scones."

I take a drink.

"How do you know that?"

"I've been sharing a dining hall with you for seven and a half years."

He grumbles and tucks himself into the pillow, pouting a bit more.

"I've never stayed at school for Christmas before this year."

He looks at me like I'm an idiot and pours himself a shot. Yeah, that was a really stupid thing to say. Of course he'd know that. We share a room.

"I didn't break up with Agatha, she broke up with me," he says.

I don't drink. I look at him to see if he's upset. He doesn't look it. He's smiling. "Isn't that great?" He says to me. "All that Chosen One bullshit and I still get dumped." He laughs, but it's almost a giggle.

"Are you okay?" I ask quietly.

"Yes," he answers. "It's sort of a relief, really. I'm still a disaster."

"Okay," I reply. "I've never had a date."

Simon takes another drink. It lasts a while.

"You can't know that," I protest.

He's a bit of a mess by now, and speaks slowly. "Yes. You're a git, Baz. It's obvious." I scowl, but I feel warm inside. Even if Simon called me a git. Even if he knows too much about me. My blood is warm and my cheeks are warm and I'm lying on Simon's bed which is warm and our arms are touching and his arm is warm warm warm. "I like being your friend." Simon says, and it takes me a moment to realise that it's his contribution to the game. I don't know whether the modest option is to drink or not here, but I'm way past caring, so I do, and then he takes it from me and drinks too, even though it's my turn. It's my turn. I face him. We're both on the pillow this time. Our noses are just a centimetre or two from touching. I can smell the vodka in his breath. It's my turn. "I'm gay," I tell him. I wait for him to take the bottle. I wait for him to get up and walk away. I wait for any kind of response. He just looks at me. Just my face, scans it quickly and then locks on my eyes. He quirks the corner of his mouth up into a smile. "Oh Bazzy," he breathes softly. "I know." 27th February, Simon The first time I wake up, I'm laying on top of my duvet and Baz is curled up next to me. He's facing me on my pillow. My mind feels distant and sort of not real, and all I want to do is hug him and laugh about it. But he's sleeping, so I don't. Instead, I tuck us both under the duvet and giggle quietly to myself. The second time I wake up, light is shining through the curtains and Baz is still in my bed. This time my arm was definitely across his chest, and our noses were almost definitely touching. But I don't have time to think about it, because I am about to be sick and I'm stumbling across the room to the toilet before I've even properly woken up. I must wake Baz on my way, because no sooner am I retching than he is crouched beside me at the toilet bowl rubbing his hand up and down my back. I lean into it slightly in between heaves. He hands me a damp cloth to wipe my mouth with, and then stands up. I want to pull him back down but I don't have the energy. I clutch the toilet bowl again and concentrate on not curling up, but just a moment later Baz is back. He's holding a glass of water and softly fingering the hair at the nape of my neck. It's soft and untouched and I keen into him, not thinking about anything at all. His voice brings me round. "Simon."

I blink slowly up at him.

"Simon, drink the water. We can clean you up in the morning but if you want to feel any better than this when you wake up, drink the water." I do, and he fills it up again. When he does so a third time I shake my head, but he holds it to my mouth until I drink it. I feel like he is a puppeteer and I am his puppet. I am malleable at his touch, at his disposal. After I finish, he drinks a glass himself. "Need a wee?"

I nod. I don't even wait for him to leave, but he turns around politely. When I've finished, he turns back. "Can you make it back to bed?"

I nod again, but don't move. He takes my arm and gently steers me in the right direction. I curl up onto it and hug the pillow, groaning quietly. "Do you need me to stay?" Baz asks, so quietly I almost miss it. I say nothing, but I look up and my eyes must be carrying their own message because he immediately tucks himself in quietly beside me. I fall asleep to him rubbing my back. The third time I wake up, Baz is gone. The clock reads 10:34am, and there is a sick bowl on the floor. On the desk is an empty bottle of Vodka. My head pounds, and I groan and roll over. On the bedside table is a glass of water and a packet of paracetamol. Baz's bed is made. 9th March, Simon "Si, can you grab me one too?" Penny calls. I'm heading up to the serving hatch in the dining hall to pick up some more scones. It's Sunday afternoon and we're in the middle of Watford's traditional afternoon tea, but we've already run out of scones. I return with a whole plate to add to our sandwich tier, and Penny grabs two before I can put it down. She holds one out to Agatha who shrugs and continues picking at the one already in front of her, so Pen keeps it. "So you and Baz still going strong then?" She asks through a mouthful.

"Going strong?"

"Going well," Agatha sighs, as if I'm being overly picky.

"Yeah, I guess," I reply vaguely.

"You spend a lot of time together."

"Do we?"

"Yes," Agatha answers. I finish buttering my scone and take a large bite. It takes a while to chew. "So?" I say eventually. "He's not that bad. Actually pretty funny, really."

"Well, I'm beginning to feel like a second choice!" Penny says indignantly.

I blink. Second choice? Why shouldn't I be spending some time with a new friend? Is she jealous? "It's actually nice to be spending some time with another guy for once." And I don't mean it to sound that bad, but as soon as it's out my mouth I regret it. Agatha looks totally pissed off and I don't blame her. I swallow, and wish it were possible to swallow what I just said. Penny is silent for a moment. But Penny is my oldest friend here, and she really understands me. "Okay," she says. "I get that." It sounds legitimate but she won't catch my eye. I grab her hand.

"Pen, I didn't mean it to come out like that. I'm not fed up of you. You know that. Well... I hope you know that, because I'm not. I just... me and Baz have spent nearly eight years hating each other when all this time I could have had a built-in best friend. No, not best friend-" I trail off, but Penny waves her hand.

"It's okay, Simon, we understand." I think she's speaking for her and Agatha, but Agatha doesn't look like she totally agrees. Penny carries on regardless. "You've got lots of catching up to do."

She smiles, and Agatha rolls her eyes but sort of smiles too. "I don't get you, Simon. You're weird as anything," she adds, but it sounds kind of affectionate.

Penelope's face goes deadly serious all of a sudden. "As long as you don't ditch us." It sounds like a real threat.

"Ditch you?!" I laugh. "He's a vampire, Pen. I can't afford to do that."

Baz I catch Simon on the way out of afternoon tea. He's sitting where he normally does, with Agatha and Penelope. He doesn't clap me on the back with a "Basiltonnnnn," or nod his head with a little salute, or any of the usual boyish greetings I could expect to receive when I see him around school. Instead he sort of looks at the table. I lean in a little. "Wanna head outside for chess?" I don't know what makes me say it. We haven't played chess since the night I got him drunk. We haven't actually spoken about it. I don't know if he even remembers it. He did have the whole of Thursday off school. "Outside?" He says. I look out the window. It looks cold (it is only March) but it's not raining, and there's a nice afternoon Spring sun. I shrug. Simon looks over to Penny. She rolls her eyes, and then Agatha leans over her and pushes him towards me. Simon raises his eyebrows, mouths a silent "Okay!" and follows me outside. Once we're alone, he's back to normal, jabbering about something or other he'd been going on about this morning. I nod along and watch the way the sun turns his curls golden. After a while, I stop walking. We're on the outskirts of the woods, out of view of the school, and there's a crumbling dry stone wall covered on one side in spongy green moss.

"This good?"

Simon nods. I sit down on an old stile, and Simon takes the dip in the wall. Then he cocks his head. "Where's the chessboard?"

"I.... didn't bring one."

He narrows his eyes as if he's thinking about something.

"I was going to," I tell him truthfully. "If you wanted to play, I was going to run upstairs and get it. But then... I..."

"...didn't." He finishes for me, and laughs.

"Yeah," I laugh, too. "Basically."

"Okay," Simon says and laughs again. "Okay." We're quiet for a few minutes. I don't know what to say to him. Eventually, I speak. It's not elegant, or thought out. It's not even what I came here to do, though it probably looks that way from Simon's perspective.  "I'm sorry about last time."

He cocks his head again and it looks like a lost puppy. He squints slightly through the sun. For a while, I don't even think he's going to reply.

"Why are you sorry?"

"You were sick." That's not why I'm sorry. I am sorry that happened, but it's not why I'm sorry. I want to tell him I'm sorry for thinking anything could come of it. I'm sorry for trying to get him drunk so he'd lose all his inhibitions. Even if that's not what I was trying to do.

"Yeah," he tells me. "I was."

"Sorry," I say again, and look up at him.

"It's okay. It happens to the best of us," and he gives me a fucking cheeky smile.

I stretch my leg out and kick his foot. "That's a shit way to say sorry."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He looks up at me again and in the light of the setting sun his whole face is a burning gold.  "Maybe you should stop trying to apologise." I watch his lips. "If you're so bad..."

He licks them, like he doesn't know what to say next, what to do. I know what I want to do next. I want to push him off that wall into the field behind, I want to pin him to the ground with my knees and sit on his chest. And then I want to kiss him until the sun has set and risen and set again. Simon shivers slightly, and I realise he's not wearing a coat. I take mine off and hold it out to him, but he shakes his head.

"Want to head back?" I ask.

He pulls his lips in tight. "Not really?" He says it tentatively, like a question. "But... I suppose we should."

"Yeah." I say, not moving.

"Yeah," he echoes, and catches my eye. "Yeah." 27th March, Baz Simon and I have played chess every night this week. The Easter holidays start after school tomorrow, and so I think, without actually having discussed it, we're both trying to cram as much in as possible before our two weeks without seeing each other. I've also spent most of my week trying to come up with a way of getting Simon's phone number without scaring him off. (I mean, we're not allowed phones at Watford but he must have one. This is the twenty first century). I just don't want to reach fifth period tomorrow and depart with an empty "keep in touch, yeah?" that signifies the exact opposite. And I know it's only two weeks, but still, that's two weeks. "Check," Simon says, breaking my thought process. Our games have been pretty silent recently. Maybe it's concentration. Simon has improved massively since February. I frown at the board and take my turn. Another nine minutes of silence, broken eventually by my own, "Check." The game is over a few minutes later. I win. I put the board away. That's it. Our last chess game for two weeks. Simon says nothing. "'S'up, Snow?" He sighs, and stares at the ceiling from his bed. Then he shakes his head slowly. I let it slide and try not to think that it's my fault (because it probably isn't) while I get ready for bed. Once the lights are off, I hear Simon roll over. "You know ages ago when you said you felt uneasy?"

"After I got back from football and you asked me?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah," I nod, and it rustles on my pillow.

"Yeah."

"Yeah what?" I ask him.

"I don't know." There's a pause. "You said you feel like you're not being you."

"No," I say, but in a way that suggests I'm agreeing with him.

"Well, how do you know who 'you' is?" And I think it's rhetorical, but I reply anyway.

"I think you just have to try stuff out and see." So what's your phone number? I don't add. But the he asks me. "Do you have a phone, Baz?" And I'm so taken aback I don't answer him, and he says my name again. "Yes," I say. "And yes." "Gimme your number in the morning, yeah?" "Yeah," I say. "Okay." Okay. Once I hear his breathing settling, I head out to the catacombs to feed. Empty handed. It's been ages since I last took a bottle with me. When I return though, Simon is tossing and turning in his sheets and mumbling to himself. I stay as quiet as possible so as not to wake him, although once I'm in bed I'm almost tempted to rouse him on purpose. He's writhing around not as if he's in pain, but sort of hurt and confused, and keeps sighing heavily. "'M a bastard," he mumbles through sleep-heavy lips, and thumps his pillow semi-aggressively. I want to run over to him and tuck his little fists away where they won't do any harm. I want to stroke his hair until he sleeps soundly. I want to climb into his bed and tell him that he's not a bastard, he's perfect. But I don't. Instead, I get out of bed and open the window.

[iltornante]

"You are not meant to do what you love. You are meant to do what you’re skilled at."

I like this quote, though it's taken slightly out of context here and isn't really the best advice for life in and of itself. But I'll come back to that.

This quote is why I'm not a professional athlete, a teacher, an interpreter or a barrister. I enjoyed doing all of these things to the point I would say I loved doing them (or preparing to do them, I guess; it was perhaps more the idea that I loved in some cases). I still do (kinda). But I wasn't very good at any of them (again, kinda).

This is also why I often question whether I'm in the right job even now. Yeah, I'm a *decent* programmer ... but really? I ain't even that good at this. I get by. I benefit from working in a field that is considered somewhat esoteric by the majority, though... because it means most people don't know enough to accurately gauge my ability. Kinda like martial arts. I'm pretty sure most people overestimate my skill in that area too -- again, I'm "proficient", but nothing special -- because most people have no clue about how martial arts work.

I said "kinda" earlier because I *am* actually a pretty good teacher. But I'm far too unconventional to ever be trusted to educate within the institutions and structures we have in place. I can coach your kid's football team, I can mentor your teenage son, and I can show your mom how to use Excel ... but there is no way I would be trusted to teach your 13-year-old son and his thirty classmates about the Nazis.

Kinda leaves me in limbo, tbh. I feel like I've found something I am legitimately skilled at, that I enjoy ... but it's almost impossible for me to make a living out of it.

So I fall back on another thing I like doing that I'm kinda good at instead. Until the day comes that I realise I have grown to hate it, like I did with football. And I've come close a couple times, to be honest.

Let me explain.

I love football. It's a kind of freedom, in a way. It's a limited environment in which I can predict most of what's going to happen, so I feel like I'm in control (for the most part) ... but there's still enough mystery about it that I have to work at it. I have to be focused. I can be surprised. I can be *excited* about it.

I'm not great at football. I'm... slightly above average at it, perhaps. I worked long and hard to reach that point, too.

For a brief time, I got paid to do play football. I was, in a distant, minor way, living my dream.

Then I *hated* it.

See, when you do something you love as a means of earning a living, it's *work*. Work is, on a fundamental level, not enjoyable. The context of doing a thing shifts when it's work. If I'm playing football with my friends, if I make a mistake, there are consequences, sure... but it's not that serious. I'll put my hand up, say "my bad" and get back to the game. If I'm having an off day, I can come off the pitch and say "sorry guys, not my day today" and it's not a big deal. However, when you're being paid... neither of those things can be dismissed so easily. You made a mistake? Expect it to count against you. You're less likely to be picked for the next game, and when you're picked less, you're less likely to get a contract renewal, or to earn the amount you need to pay your bills, etc... even though you're working just as hard as the average person in full-time employment (no seriously, you might only train with the team for about 15-20 hours a week, but fuck me... that time spent is just as tiring, if not more so than 40 hours stacking shelves on a night shift as ASDA. I speak from experience here). Essentially, when you are working, your security of employment rests on the impression your superiors (and to some extent, your colleagues) have of you. In a football team, this means you can't really relax. Not fully, like you might in a no-stakes game with your friends. Because every game in competitive football has stakes. Even the non-competitive games. That tune-up friendly against the reserves? You're being judged. Training session? Judged. That time you were sent to train with the youth team? Definitely judged. And you can bet your ass that your performance in that league or cup game is being judged. Even if the gaffer says "ah don't worry, you were only on for a bit, not enough time to make a judgment call" ... he has already decided. That's why you only got seven minutes. For me, this was exceptionally hard to accept. I'd worked so hard, for so long, to be told: "you're still not good enough". What I heard was "you'll never *be* good enough", with a subtext of "even for this low level of the game".

Where am I going with this? Well... when you can't relax, everything becomes serious. There's pressure. Some people -- myself included -- struggle with that. Particularly when getting to wherever you are was a struggle in itself. There are degrees of struggle, and I think I handled it better than average... but it still *broke me*. Even now, I hate when I'm playing a game and teammates criticise my decisions or my performance. Partly because in most cases, I'm about 90% sure they're wrong (I'll freely admit the strength of my ego on this, but it's not like I don't have the experience and understanding to back up my thoughts) but also partly because there are no real stakes. So why are they so aggressively criticising? It's one thing if it's constructive -- I do this; "fam, you can't lunge in like that, you gotta stay on your feet" or "hold your position, otherwise they pull you out of line and it creates a gap they can exploit" -- because then it's just a friend trying to elevate your game. But *instruction* and *commands* ...? Nah. Even when I coached football, I used those things sparingly during games. Suggestion works a lot better. Nobody likes being told what to do in a setting where they'd normally feel free (and, by extension, happy).

Anyways, I'm going off on a tangent here. My point is that when something goes from "thing you like" to "thing you do for a living" ... the re-framing of its position in your life can often cause the things you liked most about it to disappear. Mainly because I suspect what you liked most about it was that it *didn't feel like work*

That initial quote is solid. But it needs more, I think. You can't just do whatever you're skilled at either. I think you need to do something you're *so* skilled at, it no longer feels like work to do it.

[andongaustin]

All football fans are scared of something. Be it fate, habit, man or beast. For some, there is the annual spectre of relegation looming in their thoughts; others are constantly afraid of snatching failure from the jaws of success – even after Wenger has left. At United, the fans are in most fear of an inanimate object. No, not Daley Blind, but the fax machine. They dread the beep and whir of an official communication from Real Madrid Club de Futbol, pertaining to the purchase of David de Gea. The ineffectiveness of such an arcane form of communication famously (and fortuitously) put pay to a previous attempted coup, but it has since felt like a glitchy delay of the inevitable: the Spaniard’s return. In their heart of hearts, even the most biased red would concede that for most of his seven year stint at the club, United have been punching with Dave. He has been far too good for the players around him, and deserves better in every respect. Undisputedly the best goalkeeper in the world, he has never had the merest sniff at a Champions League medal. Allied to this, the Madrid native has made no secret of his desire to return home. A product of the Atletico Juvenil, it is obvious he’d have zero qualms about joining their local rivals at the Bernabeu – quite the opposite in fact. Real Madrid is a special draw to anyone of Iberian blood, never mind a son of their streets. Alas, there’s no place like home. Everything calls him back: the sun, the glamour, the culture, the food, the very real prospect of European glory, and proximity to his long-term girlfriend Edurne Garcia – Manchester may be wonderful, but it can’t possibly compete with all of that. Thankfully for everyone associated with United, the stars — and fax toners — have failed to align…just yet. Dave is 27 now, and more than served his time. He has remained extremely patient and serene in spite of the perma-transition going on before him. It would be extremely harsh for anyone of Old Trafford allegiance to do anything other than thank him wholeheartedly and wish him the very best were he to return to the city that reared him. That said, perhaps it needn’t end that way. More so, perhaps it shouldn’t end that way. Everyone has a story, but until the words are written – prior to the jets of ink hitting the fax roll – perspective can shift in a way that causes all future plans to jam and recalibrate. None of us are hostages to fortune forever; we eventually arrive at a point that allows us to push for what we most determinedly want. The only thing that can stop us is a change of mind. De Gea arrived at the World Cup as the universally accepted number one number one, playing for the expert’s choice team to reign supreme. His neck may have been barren of ribbons, barring an FA Cup losers’ medal, but his chest was swollen from rave reviews and platitudes. If nothing else, Manchester always lets its heroes know they’re ace and appreciated. Sadly, things in Russia did not pan out quite as he would have hoped. Real Madrid, in their infinite and arrogant wisdom, chose to derail all of Spain’s best-laid plans by swooping for Julen Lopetegui – leading to his untimely sacking. This directly contributed to a disjointed and all-too-brief campaign under Fernando Hierro. They topped their group, but only managed a single victory – against Iran – before losing to the hosts on penalties. Of course such failure demanded a scapegoat, with Florentino Perez the obvious candidate. But no, the Spanish media rounded rather bizarrely on De Gea. He was condemned as ineffectual and weak – and the prime reason why his country only lasted a fortnight. So much so that Edurne received online abuse for her partner’s perceived failures. Foremost in their criticism were Marca – famed for being Real’s media mouthpiece. Having identified De Gea as the convenient stooge to distract from Florentino’s sabotage, they got to work on building a negative narrative. Rating him the very lowest of all of Spain’s performers in Russia, they concluded that the United man had “lost his position as the country’s undisputed number one.” Understandably, Dave was miffed. He succinctly and pointedly responded: “To whom supported, suffered and criticised us with respect, thanks. We’re f****d but we’ll get up again and never give up.” The apology was sincere, but so was the obvious irritation. United fans, old hands at providing sanctuary to World Cup bête noires, advised he ‘fuck ’em and come home’. That word again: home. There is nothing nice about being labelled a national failure. It is not a positive thing. We certainly didn’t want one of our own to be subjected to such torment. However, if there’s a silver lining to the cloud, it is that the greatest goalie in the world may now have a different sense of where he truly belongs — and where he can be most happy. Dave did not deserve the very focused criticism he received. He was essentially thrown under the bus for the sins of others. In the process, he got a small taste of what he could face were he to swap Manchester for Madrid. Old Trafford enveloped him with love and support during his most vulnerable moments; Spain spat on his name for not stopping penalties. You don’t need me to tell you how good our boy is – you already know. I could wax lyrical about how he has saved our skins time and time again. I could waste paragraphs expanding on the obvious — that he is quite possibly the closest that any of us will get to witnessing a real life superhero. But why try to articulate what you’ve seen with your own eyes? We absolutely know and appreciate that we have a rare gem in our possession. And we never fail to let him and world know that. Each stunning save is celebrated like a winning goal, whilst the rare fumble is forgiven in an instant. You won’t find a bad word said of the man when he fails to reach a goal-bound effort — there’s no white hankies here. In targeting De Gea as an outlet for their pent up frustrations, perhaps the Spanish and Madrid-based media have done us a massive favour. Maybe they’ve caused our number one to reassess where he feels most comfortable and accepted. To use a quote often attributed to one of Manchester’s finest sons, it’s not where you’re from, it’s where you’re at. Fuck ’em and come home, Dave. You’re safe with us just as much as we’re safe with you. Republik of Mancunia

http://austinakwa.blogspot.com/2018/08/theres-no-place-like-home-for-de-gea.html

[365footballorg-blog]

Apathy or anxiety - why are fewer England fans going to Russia?

Still interested in going to the World Cup in Russia this summer?

The latest ticket sales phase opened on Wednesday and figures so far show the appetite among England fans is not what it was four years ago.

With 30,711 tickets allocated so far, England fans are only the 11th most numerous of those making the trip from other countries.

During the second sales window which closed on 3 April, there were more tickets taken up by fans from China and India, neither represented at the finals, than from England.

By February 2014, 51,222 tickets had already been allocated to England fans heading to Brazil, making them sixth on the list of countries.

Tickets are allocated by Fifa according to demand. So why the relative lack of interest? Apathy about the football or worries about politics or crowd violence? And are fans’ fears misplaced?

Apathy towards the England team?

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First and foremost, football fans want to see their team win.

In 2014, England were among the most heavily supported teams, despite a relative lack of success in international football in recent times.

The national team have reached the quarter-finals of a World Cup just twice in their past six attempts, and they have not won a knockout game at a major tournament in 12 years.

So are fans simply losing interest?

Garford Beck, the team manager of England Fans FC, thinks so, claiming that a lot of England fans “reached the end of the road after Brazil, because it was such a poor showing”.

And CJ Joiner, a Coventry City fan and member of the FA travel club for the past five years, says that “boring football doesn’t help” encourage fans to travel.

He has spent just over £1,000 to buy tickets for each potential England game – seven in total – but can return them and receive a refund should England fail to progress past a certain stage.

“England fans will have to spend a lot of money to follow the side in Russia, but under Gareth Southgate the side lack creativity,” he told BBC Sport.

The threat of hooliganism?

Also at the forefront of fans’ minds is the possibility of being caught up in violence between rival supporters.

England and Russia fans clashed on the streets of Marseille two years ago, before and after the Euro 2016 meeting between the two nations. There were also incidents inside the stadium on the evening of the game.

The Russian contingent in the port city were smaller in number but arrived prepared for conflict. Indeed, some England fans in a BBC documentary described the onslaught as a “military operation”.

In the programme – Russia’s Hooligan Army – a group of Russian ultras taunted their English counterparts and warned of violence at this summer’s World Cup on home soil.

However, Anwar Uddin, diversity and campaigns manager for the Football Supporters’ Foundation, told BBC Sport he expects the hooligans to be on their “best behaviour”.

“I was in Marseille and the way the Russians went about their business was methodical – they were there to make their mark,” he said.

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“Seeing what is reported about some aspects of Russian society, people are going to build up an idea in their heads about what the country is like. It does make you think.

“But I would like to think the Russian fans will be on their best behaviour with the world watching on.”

Heightened political tensions?

The nerve agent attack on former Russian double agent Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia on UK soil in March, led many to point the finger at Moscow.

The events in Salisbury have severely strained diplomatic relations between the UK and Russia but Beck, of England Fans FC, believes “anti-British sentiment from Russia is nothing new”.

And although the last tournament was on another continent, he suggests more fans travelled to Brazil for the South American climate, and because the country “has a better image and is friendlier to England”.

While most England fans acknowledge the threat of violence from their Russian counterparts, Beck raises concerns about the local police.

“I like Eastern Europe but when we go over there we do seem to get some poor treatment from the authorities.”

Those claims of Russian police being heavy-handed are echoed by Coventry fan Joiner.

He said: “I actually think England fans will be OK in terms of opposing fans, but it’s the police I would be worried about.”

Official guidelines for travelling supporters from the foreign office state: “Due to heightened political tensions between the UK and Russia, you should be aware of the possibility of anti-British sentiment or harassment at this time.

“If you’re currently in Russia or due to travel in the coming weeks, you’re advised to remain vigilant, avoid any protests or demonstrations and avoid commenting publicly on political developments.”

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‘We had one of our best trips’ – are Russia fears misplaced?

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But the recent experiences of Arsenal fans who travelled to watch their side against CSKA Moscow earlier this month for a Europa League quarter-final tie have been positive.

Danny, from Guilford, told BBC Sport: “I feel you’re safer going to a sporting event than doing anything else.

“People have been so friendly. The stereotypes you have, so far they’ve been completely the opposite. Everyone’s been chatty and friendly.

“I don’t know if you can equate club and country – this is not as high profile. I’m not going to the World Cup but it’s been a really positive experience.

“Quite a few of us go in large groups to games and when I suggested this trip they said ‘don’t be silly’, because they didn’t want to take the risk.”

Sam, from north London, added: “A lot of people told us we were foolish for coming out here but it has been friendly, the city is beautiful, and it’s one of the best trips we’ve been on.

“We’ve had a good reception from the locals. We were out until the early hours and there was no hostility.

“I was in Marseille when England played Russia and didn’t have any problems – it’s about where you position yourself. If you keep yourself away from the minority that cause trouble you’ll be fine.”

The supporters we spoke to said one of their biggest issues was paying £185 for a visa at late notice, although the cost of a visa for an England fan should be cheaper because they buy them earlier.

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Racism and homophobia rife?

Last year, European football’s anti-discrimination group Fare warned gay fans going to Russia not to show affection in public if they wanted to stay safe.

In January, Spartak Moscow were sanctioned after posting a tweet referring to their black players as “chocolates”.

Russian politicians have been criticised for a 2013 law banning gay ‘propaganda’ – a law the European Court of Human Rights last year ruled was “discriminatory”.

But former Chelsea and Russia midfielder Alexei Smertin urged gay and ethnic minority England supporters in March not to be deterred from travelling by fears of racist or homophobic abuse.

Smertin, who is now anti-discrimination chief for the finals, told BBC World Service fans’ “minds would be changed completely” about Russia as a country.

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Alexei Sorokin, chief of Russia’s World Cup organising committee, has also played down safety concerns for UK visitors.

“We will ensure security in equal measures to all, from dignitaries to fans,” Sorokin told TASS, the government-owned Russian news agency.

“To us, there is no difference which country people come from or what our diplomatic relations with them are. It is a shame that the games will be played in such circumstances.”

However, the Football Supporters’ Foundation’s Uddin said the threat of racism was “one of the negatives” when weighing up whether to go to the World Cup.

“If you’re going to spend a ridiculous amount of money following England you have to weigh up all the pros and cons,” said Uddin, who is intending to go to Russia later in the tournament.

“There are a lot of negatives when thinking about Russia and the element of violence and racism is on the list. People have to be realistic and safety has to be a concern.”

Could the FA do more?

Some England fans lay part of the blame with the Football Association.

To buy tickets through the FA for any away fixture or major tournament, England fans must be members of the travel club. But Sky Blues supporter Joiner says membership has significantly declined in recent years.

“There were 19,000 official members before the World Cup in Brazil four years ago, but there are only 11-12,000 now,” he said.

Joiner also says the FA are not “enticing fans” to become members of the travel club and that there is a feeling among some that the organisation is focused on filling Wembley for home games.

“That’s all the FA are bothered about because they generate more revenue from home fixtures,” Joiner said.

In response, an FA spokesperson said: “We are always grateful for the travelling support that England receive and acknowledge that there are a number of factors that determine attendance at tournaments.”

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Apathy or anxiety – why are fewer England fans going to Russia? was originally published on 365 Football

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Phil Neville: England women head coach sorry after ‘sexist’ tweets criticised

Neville has been appointed on a deal until 2021

New England women’s head coach Phil Neville has apologised for past controversial tweets about women.

The ex-Manchester United defender, 41, was named Lionesses boss on Tuesday but was accused of making sexist comments on the social media site in 2012.

In one tweet, he suggested women would be too “busy making breakfast/getting kids ready” to read his messages.

Neville said his comments were not “a true and genuine reflection of either my character or beliefs”.

Sports minister Tracey Crouch called his past remarks “ill-advised”.

Former England full-back Neville takes over from Mo Marley, who had been in interim charge since Mark Sampson’s sacking.

In a statement released by the Football Association, he added: “I am fully aware of my responsibilities as the England women’s head coach and am immensely proud and honoured to have been given the role.

“I am now looking forward to the future and will work tirelessly to try and help bring success to the team.”

It is understood the FA was aware of Neville’s tweets before his appointment.

FA urged to charge Neville

Campaigners have criticised the appointment of Neville, who has coached at former club Manchester United, Valencia and England Under-21s but has only managed one game – at Salford City, a team he co-owns.

And equality group Kick It Out has asked the FA whether it will level a disciplinary charge against Neville for appearing to make “misogynistic and sexist comments”.

Meanwhile, sports minister Crouch said: “While it is not my job to pick England managers, the FA needs to ensure that it has transparency around the process so that fans and football stakeholders alike are confident in it.

“It is right that Phil Neville has apologised for his ill-advised, historical remarks. Sexism of any kind must not be tolerated.”

Neville deleted Twitter account

Neville’s appointment produced a mixed reaction, and after saying on Twitter how “proud and honoured” he was to take on the role, he quickly added “see you all soon” after past tweets came to light.

In posts dating from 2012, he had said: “Morning men, couple of hours cricket before work sets me up nicely for the day.”

When people responded asking whether he would address women, he clarified in another post: “When I said morning men I thought the women would [have] been busy preparing breakfast/getting kids ready/making beds-sorry morning women!”

Other users picked up on comments Neville had made when interacting with his sister and with his wife – and one in which he joked he had “just battered the wife”.

After those posts gained thousands of retweets, Neville then deleted his account, which had 1.6 million followers.

Neville’s contract runs through to the end of the 2021 Uefa Women’s European Championship campaign.

But he will first lead the Lionesses – ranked third in the world – at the 2019 World Cup in France, where they will be among the favourites.

‘Kick in the teeth’ – Appointment criticised

Kick It Out chief Roisin Wood said the organisation had serious concerns over the appointment “of someone with no record of management or experience in women’s football” and would be making representations to the FA.

The Women’s Sport Trust said: “To see a high-profile, former professional footballer virtually parachuted in to such a significant role in football without the level of experience required, undermines the coaching pathway and will be a blow to hundreds of football coaches, both male and female, currently working towards their badges at all levels.”

A statement from the Women In Football group said it felt like “a kick in the teeth to the team” and added that just 17% of professional sport coaches in the UK were female.

But the England men’s manager Gareth Southgate told the BBC there had been “a very thorough process around applications and interviews” for the women’s job.

“I guess, how do you get that experience without an opportunity? I wish him well, first and foremost,” he said.

“Hopefully for them now, as a team, everybody can start focusing on the football and how they progress.”

Neville (left) was part of David Moyes’ backroom staff at Manchester United and stayed when Ryan Giggs was appointed interim manager in April 2014

Neville was also backed by his former United team-mate Ryan Giggs, recently named boss of the Wales men’s team despite limited managerial experience.

“That’s what you’ve got to come to terms with when you get these sorts of jobs – a bit of flak – but all I can say is I’ve known Phil for a number of years, and he’ll do a really good job,” he said.

Analysis

BBC sports editor Dan Roan

Yet again the FA are under fierce scrutiny over a managerial appointment that threatens to become another farce.

In 2016 the governing body faced questions over its due diligence when Sam Allardyce was sacked after just one match in charge of the England men’s team following a newspaper sting.

Last year Mark Sampson was dismissed as England women’s manager for “inappropriate & unacceptable” behaviour with female players in a previous role. That – along with the crisis sparked by Eni Aluko’s racism allegations against him – meant the appointment of his replacement was crucial. The FA simply had to get it right.

Yet here we are, with Neville incredibly forced to apologise for sexist and ill-advised tweets – including one appearing to make light of domestic violence against women – on his first day in the job.

The FA needs to explain why – if they knew about these tweets before hiring him – they failed to foresee the controversy they would inevitably generate. And both they – and Neville himself – might want to front up and explain themselves at a proper press conference before the situation spirals out of control.

‘Lack of suitable female candidates’

The former Manchester United and Everton midfielder played 59 times for England and has won 10 major trophies, including six Premier League titles.

But his first taste of women’s football will involve taking on the top two teams in the world – United States and Germany – plus France, in the She Believes Cup, starting on 1 March.

Predecessor Sampson was sacked from his position following evidence of “inappropriate and unacceptable behaviour” in a previous role.

Under Sampson, England reached the Euro 2017 semi-finals, losing to eventual winners the Netherlands, having come third at the 2015 World Cup – their best finish at the tournament.

Former England women goalkeeper Rachel Brown-Finnis would have preferred to see a woman appointed as his successor, but believes there were no suitable candidates.

“I think they shouldn’t hire someone just because they’re female,” she told BBC Radio 5 live.

“Phil Neville doesn’t have that senior level management experience but what he does bring is pretty unique.

“He trained and played as a top-level player in an era when Manchester United won everything. He has that level of excellence that the players will thrive on.”

Phil Neville met the England team at their training camp at La Manga in Spain this week

Another former England goalkeeper, Pauline Cope-Bonas, was far more critical of Neville’s appointment.

“He got it because of his name,” she said. “No disrespect to him and I’m sure he’ll go on to do a good job purely because he’s got world-class players there. They don’t need to be coached, they just need to be managed.

“A lot of people are disappointed because probably he hasn’t been to a women’s game. He’s never worked within the women’s game and that’s the crux of it.

“It is different. We deal with emotional things, women have women’s problems, monthly problems, relationship problems. “

Former England defender Danny Mills called it a “left-field” appointment.

“What has happened to the FA Player Pathway? St George’s Park was supposed to be promoting coaches from within,” he said.

“Phil has never been a number one anywhere else before. He’s now going into a team that’s third in the world. How can he just jump above everybody else?”

What are Neville’s credentials?

Neville, who has a Uefa Pro Licence and lives in Valencia, was an assistant to England Under-21 boss Stuart Pearce in their disappointing 2013 European Championship campaign.

He joined David Moyes at Old Trafford, where he lasted the 2013-14 season, despite the Scot being sacked.

His next top-level coaching job was at Valencia in Spain’s La Liga, where he was appointed coach in July 2015 and left soon after brother Gary was dismissed as manager following a run of three wins in 16 league games.

Neville’s experience and knowledge of the women’s game is understood to be limited.

Emma Hayes, Nick Cushing, Laura Harvey and John Herdman all dropped out of the running

Who were the other candidates?

The FA was keen for a woman to replace Sampson but was forced to look elsewhere after early potential appointments dropped out of the running.

Chelsea boss Emma Hayes pledged her future to the club, and former Arsenal head coach Laura Harvey took up a new role with the Utah Royals in the US.

Englishman John Herdman was also a contender prior to being named head coach of Canada’s national men’s team after more than six years in charge of the country’s women’s team, and Manchester City boss Nick Cushing was interviewed but signed a new contract with his club.

Marley also applied for the role having spoken of her desire to give the England players “stability”, but later withdrew from consideration.

Marley will now return to leading England women’s development teams, including taking a squad to this summer’s U20 World Cup.

During her time in charge, she led England to victories in World Cup qualifiers against Bosnia & Herzegovina and Kazakhstan – in which they scored nine goals and conceded none – as well as a friendly defeat by France.

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