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SCHOLESY'S OSCAR 9-2-07
Calum Law
With over two-thirds of the season gone nominations are being prepared for the respective Footballer of the Year awards, and English football fans' hearts sink: which flavour of sullen arrogance would we like with our tuxedo?
The commentators make it a two-horse race. In the blue silks we have Ivory Diver, a dogged trier whose erstwhile clumsiness has been largely corrected; and in the red colours, Fergie's Pet, a tempermental colt whose tendency to run off down the wrong track has been reined in as his ability to finish well has improved. Both of course are frequent fallers.
Ronaldo already appears a shoo-in for the Football Writers' gong, with Blue Square quoting him at 1-4 - cautiously low odds which give one the impression they may be based on privileged information.
Football journalists, most of whom were nerds in a previous life, like to view themselves as guardians of the game's 'aesthetics'. So garlanding the Portuguese 'winker' would be in keeping with the hacks' tradition of sucking up to 'the gifted foreign genius coruscating in the grey English firmament' (in the style of claptrap they're apt to serve up).
He is certainly more deserving than Drogba, who, despite his charm offensive in the media has yet to be taken to the neutral's heart. Both prolific and consistent, the Ivorian's season has, nevertheless, not wildly diverged from what one would expect of a £24 million forward in a £300 million team.
Ronaldo however, has frequently been (in the phrase handily borrowed from cricket) 'unplayable'. Suddenly, he's added mature decision-making to sublime talent - and if we seek to deny his claims we need reasons more compelling than his less-than-lovable personality.
One argument is the one elegantly advanced by Paul Hayward in the Daily Mail when championing Cesc Fabregas and his ability 'to treat a high-speed Premiership match as if it were his private orchestra.' As Hayward wrote: 'it's one thing to decorate a game, but quite another to run it' By this criterion Fabregas has few peers in world football, let alone England. This column is sure to soon examine his gifts in more depth since it harbours a huge crush on the little Catalan schemer, and were we humble Internet scribes accorded a vote, on purely footballing terms he would get mine.
However, as the Academy Award roll of honour reminds us yearly, life's prestigious baubles are seldom distributed solely on the basis of merit. Frequently, rational debate will be muffled by a big blubbery doughball of sentiment.
Hence, Liz Taylor got Best Actress for the dreadful Butterfield 8 because she'd nearly expired (with pneumonia), whilst John Wayne quickly got one for True Grit because he was presently to do so.
So in the year when Martin Scorsese looks set to finally take a bow for a decidedly minor addition to his oeuvre, it would be nice to see a footballer thus honoured; not for one year's (admittedly excellent) work, but for a decade of marrying sumptuous technique to humility, by way of service to the team. A player who would be no more likely to essay a stepover or a rabona (though no doubt capable) than he would be to dye his instantly recognisable barnet.
Step forward (for the shortest speech in history), England's finest, Paul Scholes.
Massimo's Attack
Boro fans reeled in shock last week at Massimo Maccarone's portrayal of Steve McClaren as a man with two faces. 'Only two!' we chorused, 'we're aware of at least four'.
There's the Denture Dazzle - a specially ingratiating face for when an employer more important than his present one walks into the room. There's the Chameleon - a face of bemused innocence adept at blending into the background when in close proximity to a Sven Goran Eriksson sticky moment.
Who could forget Mr Magnificent, the face that launched a thousand superlatives (powered by the trademarked Tremendous software currently being uploaded by Bernard Matthews' PR Division). And Teesside typing pools still remember with a shudder the red, panting Dirty Mac - a lascivious countenance with the infamous pick-up line: 'I like penetration'.
McClaren has failed to comment. - the time-honoured tradition of social-climbing being a refusal to discuss one's humble origins - but trouble started it seems when he forgot Maccarone's hot water bottle. He then compounded the felony by failing to tuck him in.
Things went downhill when McClaren was forced to defend the Club Chef who had neglected to cut the crusts off little Massimo's soldiers. The hapless cook then looked on aghast as, after inspecting the mixed salad the Italian lay belly-down, thrashing at the canteen floor wailing: 'YOU PUT-A TOMATOES! YOU KNOW I DON'T A-LIKE A-TOMATOES!'
Maccarone also failed to adequately integrate with his team-mates, particularly on long coach journeys to away games when his incessant cries of 'are we nearly there yet?' would drive them to distraction.
It was always going to end in tears and the truth is that McClaren's £8.15 million purchase of Maccarone will go down as one of the most profligate mistakes in Premiership history. Neither man's departure should be mourned. With dealings like that on his c.v. it's no surprise McClaren is keen to put clear orange water between himself and Middlesbrough. The feeling's mutual.
And as for Maccarone, his protestations that 'it was never about money' and he 'just wanted to play' should be taken with a pinch of finest sea salt dried on the apron of a Ligurian signorina. The fact is, he twice went out on loan to Italian clubs with Boro still paying a large slice of his wages. He could've stayed - and played - but it meant accepting a pay cut.
Both times Maccarone, unsurprisingly, elected to steel himself to endure once more the unprofessional mores of his English employer.
Arrivaderci.
Wayne's Back
A disinterested attitude vis-a-vis one's former charges can cut both ways. If McClaren, former protege of Sir Alex, wasn't aware of this, then Wayne Rooney's face on Sunday told him all he needed to know.
Any forward just running into form would be somewhat piqued to be substituted when his team is 4-0 up. But Rooney's black scowl told of a man who knew that he was about to be informed: 'you're injured'.
McClaren needs all the help he can get for upcoming Euro Qualifiers and whatever team he picks you can guarantee he will build his attacking strategy around Rooney. And though he'll mouth the usual platitudes about 'good opportunity to look at others', he knows the value of what he learned on Wednesday night is hugely diluted without his best player and talisman.
'Wayne's got a paticularly sore hangnail on his pinkie', 'Ryan's got a septic pimple on his nose' - Ferguson's got so much previous he may as well go the whole hog.
He didn't let Giggs - a fellow Celt - play a friendly for nearly twelve years. As one who's 50% Scottish let me assure people: to think that Fergie would ever send a full complement of players to an England friendly is to comprehensively fail to grasp the rancour and loathing (for the 'invader') embedded in all Scots' DNA.
They could all be oiled, buffed, toned, in optimum physical condition and waiting to board the minibus to Bisham Abbey; and Fergie would still likely headbutt Wes Brown and pull him out on grounds of 'tinnitus'.
Simply as a matter of principle.
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