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BETWEEN THE STICKS 25-4-06
It will not be a big surprise to anybody here that I'm writing this with an almighty FA Cup induced mega-downer. So, I guess, in total empathetic union with the majority of people who will read this rant from the Antipodes.
Quite simply, we didn't take our many chances and were profligate in front of goal, while the Hammers took their one and only clear cut opening.
The game explained in a simple sentence. Only goals count, not excuses.
To be honest, tactically West Ham surprised me, with their Wimbledon-esque attitude, in-your-face physical and at times menacing approach. When that fateful defining moment occurred just before half-time, when boofhead Ashton caved in Skippy's cheekbone with a flailing elbow, like everybody else I suspected the worst.
Not only for Mark Schwarzer but also for my Beloved Boro. Alan Pardew later claimed, in his obvious and understandably euphoric zeal, that he knew it was West Ham's destiny to reach the final, to uphold the memory of their two recently bereaved ex-managers, Ron Greenwood and John Lyall.
Maybe, but the loss of Skippy was the key point of the whole match, the catalyst for a mental and tactical change and Boro's rhythm began to falter immediately. Off went one of the best keepers in the EPL and on came a relatively inexperienced, on edge Brad Jones. Adjustments were made by Boro's defence and West Ham's muscle boys lifted a gear. The rest is history, or if you believe the bubble brigade and Pardew, destiny.
You've got to really feel for poor Schwarz, who now will miss the Uefa cup final when we get there on Thursday and, quite possibly, his career defining stint at the World Cup finals. Two competitions in which he has put in some heroic stints and he's done more than most to ensure the historic progress of both his club and country.
Football can be a cruel game of margins and perversely that's part of it's allure. Within seconds the path you were heading along to glory disappears beneath your feet and leaves you flat on your arse.
After the Steau struggle in midweek, there was a wonderful action photo splashed around the internet of the big Skippy as he unfurled himself to get within a few millimetres of turning a shot around the post. It was the only shot that beat big Mark that night, a night in which he had a very well publicised match saving Boro performance.
The big man has been much maligned at times this season after his giant dummy spit and the ensuing very public spat over the attempt at a "World Cup" boosting move during the frosty transfer window period. Happily, politics behind the scenes brokered a peace deal, it was all sorted amicably and he stayed then took the reins with aplomb again after the out of character stroppiness.
I'm a big fan of the six-foot five Aryan-Aussie Sydneysider, because he has in general been a very reliable and consistent goalkeeper and a model professional in his ten years of excellent service to Middlesbrough Football Club.
It set me thinking about the most specialised position on the field, pontificating over a few amber brain stimulators about the lot of the man in green and the very under-rated craft of goalkeeping between the sticks.
Really, when you distil a game of football at the rarefied top level and the mistakes that every player makes during the highly charged pace of ninety minutes plus of a competitive game, the only guy who suffers the stings of memory is the goalkeeper. The poor bugger can play out of his skin, usually when under siege, but one error, one glaring mistake in the pressure spotlight and he becomes a choker, a stutterer, unreliable, a calamity.
In truth, most goalkeepers would in the context of a full season have far less mistake crosses against their names than say a combative midfielder. Standing between the sticks a goalkeeper is custodian of the most specialised trade on the park.
To be a goalkeeper you have to be generally over six feet tall, very fit, very agile, mentally strong, have great reflexes, tactical acumen and general spatial awareness, as well as being fearless and extremely brave. He's party to his own specific rules, has his own unique kit and the man in the green has to stay alert and mentally keyed into a game even when his fellow players are hammering the opposition and he could feasibly do the Times crossword or have a kip on the goal line.
A good shot-stopper will improve any team and, especially any back four, who play a hell of a lot more composed football with the confidence of a good big man sweeping up behind them. That old position of sweeper was effectively annulled by the modern goalkeepers command of his area, the eighteen-yard box. With his tactical astuteness and mobility he can control the speed of a game turning defence into instant attack with adept throws, rolls and kicks. There have been some marvellous proponents of the gloved art over the years who have enlightened the game at every level.
I can't talk about the number one position without mentioning my number one, number one of all time, the marvellous England star of 66, Gordon Banks, and also without mentioning that amazing save from the head of Pele in the stifling heat of Guadalajara in the 1970 Mexico World Cup. I've seen some great keepers plying their trade over the years and in my day the best were all British. Pat Jennings, Ray Clemence, Peter Shilton, Phil Parkes and I include our own Jim Platt in that list.
The advent of the EPL changed all that with the influx of overseas stoppers and none better than Peter Schmiechel. The Dane was a veritable colossus for Manchester United and they have struggled to replace him since he moved on but finally have with Van De Sar. The most naturally gifted goalkeeper in my opinion in the EPL presently is Shay Given up at the Skunks but there are some good custodians betweens the white posts in the Top league, Cech, Friedel, Robinson, Riena, and Niemi to name a few.
The latter is a very agile shotstopper of some showy acrobatic flair at times. During his days in Scotland, a caller regaled the "expert" radio team about Naomi's abilities between the sticks for Hearts and kept saying, he should be playing for Scotland. The radio pundit exclaimed, "But he's Finnish!" At which the caller argued, "He's nae finished, I've just seen him play!"
It's a thankless and at times lonely and under-rated art is keeping. I think back to those raggy-arsed days of my youth, as we all collected for a kick about in the cul-de-sac of Kelfield Avenue in Pally Park, playing from one garage door to the other as goals. Everybody would line up in the middle facing the two best players, or one of the best players and the bugger who owned the ball.
The two captains would head pick their individual teams and the last two players chosen would go into goal as though it was a punishment. The position was then rotated between the whole team and rarely did one little tyke stick it out defending the battered green garage doors by choice. In those days anyone who stuck in goal was regarded as a bit of a nutter, a hard case. Well the playing surface was concrete...
Besides, diving full length on rock hard concrete certainly sharpens the desire to play centre-forward!
Enough said,
ErimusRed.
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