The Golden Boys: Just Like Watching Brazil?

For years it was always a pleasure to be able to sing the song “Bra-zil…it’s just like watching Brazil,” a rare treat on a surprising afternoon when Watford might, for once, give their opponents a good thrashing. But it has always been sung with tongues firmly in cheeks. This season, however, is a little different…

Whether or not the kit designers realised it at the time, the foresight to design a blue second strip, was a stroke of genius. The famous Brazilian sides of the past have always graced the pitch in vibrant yellow or their blue alternative, repeatedly giving the envious, on-looking world master classes in trickery and flair, turning heads with a dazzling array of skill, creating legendary moments that live long in the collective memory.

Not quite there yet...

Now, I am not saying the current starting line-up at Vicarage Road can be compared alongside such greats as Pele, Jarzinho, Garrincha, Ronaldo, Romario, Bebeto, Ronaldinho, Carlos Alberto, Roberto Carlos, Cafu, Zico (the list goes on). So, apart from the colour of their strip, how on earth can watching Watford be like watching the pentacampeões do mundo (five time champions of the world) I hear you say? Well, just this way: the confidence of the team, the ability to demonstrate the gulf in class between themselves and their opposition in the blink of an eye, the air of expectation amongst the fans, and the fact that sometimes it truly is a joy to watch.

This weekend’s comfortable 3-0 away victory at the City Ground was a clinical and sumptuous display of counter-attacking football of the most devastating order; an away day of the sort usually reserved for top teams.

Nottingham Forest – a side with, until Saturday, realistic play-off ambitions – were dispatched with relative ease. It was like watching an Olympic boxing challenger pulling their punches, saving themselves for the later rounds, but still landing three thunderous blows just at the required moment. The score line, although ever so slightly flattering, sent a statement to the rest of the league: “OK, so we are the division’s top scorers and now we have worked out how to keep clean sheets…bring it on.”

For the away contingent, the afternoon was spent in sheer rapturous joy, wittily inventing songs like “3-0 to the Football team,” “We’re just too good for you,” “We’re Watford FC, we play on the floor,” “Is there a fire drill?” “You might as well go home,” etc. etc. The ones that are most telling though, the ones that encapsulate the utter confidence in Watford’s strength going into the latter third of the season, are all the ones to do with going up – “Now you’re going to believe us…the ‘orns are going up,” and so they will.

Such has been the form of the Golden Boys since the beginning of November; it now almost seems an inevitability that promotion is going to happen as they inexorably close in on 2^nd spot. It is like watching Sebastien Vettel relentlessly tear through the field, after a dodgy start, chasing an unlikely podium; he has the superior engine and the skills to match, but has he left it too late?

Vydra - 5 braces in last 5 starts: makes Marlon King look tame!

The fact that Watford have drawn level with their closest rivals with 18 games to play suggests that the timing is just right. With every game, the squad appears to be refining its game, learning a little more about the system and the games of team mates, finding an extra touch of class to apply a lethal finish. Almen Abdi’s delightfully weighted chip and Matej Vydra’s clinical lob mid-way through the second half yesterday is a case in point.

A win against bottom club, Bristol City, on Tuesday will see the Hornets, if only for two days, go into second place in the division; a place they have not occupied since 23^rd February 2008, and before that 2^nd December 2000; not something that happens very often. On both of those occasions, a mid-season implosion led to a downward spiral of frustration, confusion and hopelessness for fans, swiftly followed by four seasons in the wilderness, in mid-table anonymity, also-rans occasionally flirting with idea of relegation, occasionally flirting with the idea of a play-off push; neither ever materialising.

The 2012-13 season, however, will not end the same way. It can’t possibly end the same way. There was a rather hilarious moment of realisation this weekend. A thought that sent made our company burst with laughter: "This must be what it feels like to support Man United!" 

To a casual observer this comparison may seem, again, quite ridiculous. However, what it means is that Watford at last have a team that can win games back to back; a team that approaches every game with nothing other than victory in mind; a team with a confidence that says: “We are a team going somewhere. This game is just a small step.”

The confidence at United is a product of generations of consistency and silverware, but the confidence around Watford at the moment is palpable. Watford fans for years have been used to being “a team that does well on a budget,”, “a very physical side”, who play in a “direct style”. Whereas, at this current moment in time, every game feels winnable, every game feels exciting; every game sees goals carved out with incisive passing moves and clinical finishing. So, although Watford are no samba-footed wizards, no step-over kings, to us, if only for a short while…it is just like watching Brazil.

Status-hungry chairmen: the modern face of despotism?

Nigel Adkins: the latest unwitting victim to face the firing squad

"I'm what?"

Poor Nigel…poor, poor Nigel will be the sentiment of the weekend following his surprising - or really…when you think about it, not so surprising - dismissal on Friday afternoon. The ex-Southampton hero is the latest to be summarily executed as part of the relentless purge of managers by their capricious and demanding overlords.

There have been no fewer than 29 changes of manager across the leagues so far this season, which, staggeringly, means well over a quarter of all the clubs in the football league have seen different men being pushed, or voluntarily leaving through, the revolving door of football management. Blackburn and Blackpool have been the most notable victims of the managerial merry-go-round, each having no fewer than three managers so far this season. The odds on Michael Appleton finding himself at Bolton, Burnley, or even Bury by the end of the season must be ever-shortening.

It appears that this trend towards the frenetic has only increased in pace with the influx foreign chairmen whose arena is really the cut-throat world of international business: a world where, if the “vision” of the man in charge is not realised within the strict timescale laid out at yesterday’s head-to-head mega video conference meeting, then somebody is going to take the bullet…and it isn’t going to be the man in charge.

It strikes me, with a little imagination, that parallels can be drawn between the running of a modern football club and the running of Stalinist Russia in the 1930’s, or for that matter, many despotic regimes throughout history. The manager is in the unfortunate position of being the flunky in charge of entertainment as the volatile dictator looks on without expression, never giving away the slightest hint of emotion as their expendable minions desperately scurry around, beads of sweat creeping from their temples, hoping that they have done enough to please him.

Parallels can be drawn with these infamous figures because over the course of history the most obvious route for their megalomaniacal quest for wealth, power and status was absolute rule; political control. However, my rather flippant assertion is that in the perennially mystifying age that we live in, the modern outlet for such characters is business…and now football.

"Yikes."

Despots are used to getting what they want…and fast. If somebody is not getting the desired results, or is in some way perceived to be a threat to their omnipotence, they would simply have someone else unceremoniously shoot that person in the head and bury them in a shallow ditch in a nearby forest. Thankfully, Nigel Adkins has merely lost his job, and has been allowed to keep his head by Italian banker (yes, banker with a ‘b’), Nicola Cortese. However, with a win percentage of just 45% and four defeats in his first 16 games, Rafael Benitez may not be looking in the mirror each morning with the same surety.

The rule at Chelsea is, of course, the case in point. I can just envisage an emissary being sent to the Benitez household if they ejected from the League Cup by Swansea on Wednesday night. A car with blacked out windows rolls onto the driveway of Casa Benitez, a man in dark glasses walks up to the front door and rings the bell, the door opens:

“I am sorry Señora Benitez, Rafa won’t be home for dinner tonight…”

"Bring me his head!"

Pep Guardiola’s decision to announce his move to Bayern Munich several months in advance is probably the wisest thing anyone has done in football recently. If the agreement had not been in place so early, his next few months would be spent trying to resist the generous, but calculated overtures from the Tsar of Stamford Bridge. It has probably cost him a couple of islands, some fast cars, and all the fast women his heart desires, but he probably prefers to sleep at night.

Guardiola strikes me as a man who treats his role with the gravitas with which it deserves; an attitude to his craft developed through long years at a club whose ethos will hopefully always remain unsullied by the hands of any billionaire out to make it his play thing. He seems to be the sort of man who would not compromise his philosophy and become the puppet of anyone who tries to tell him otherwise.

The decision to snub the sordid arena of world businessman one-upmanship that is the Premier League for the reassuringly efficient and well-run model that is the Bundesliga is a refreshing statement of sobriety amid the delirious casino bubble that at times loses all grip on reality. Any headline this week could have easily read: “Theo Walcott, beardless 14 year-old, accrues 3 million pounds for signing name on piece of paper with further 5 million a year to run, at pace, after a leather-bound sphere.”

"Perhaps Gianfranco will get the job done."

Unfortunatley, in England we will not see Guardiola in action. at least for some time. Instead it will be Mauricio Pochettino, speaking through a translator, as the latest baffling executive decision sucks the spirit out of a resurgent Southampton. Meanwhile, the Russian oligarch's eyes turn to Watford, and the little Italian chap doing a marvelous job there: winning over fans with a pleasing brand of football; blending exciting overseas talent with homegrown players; presenting a positive image to the media; working effectively with a board that genuinely has the best interests of the club at heart. But with Guardiola bound for Germany, the media need another target to hound relentlessly, and Zola fits the bill completely.

Is Roman thinking the same thing? Who knows. It would certainly appease fans who will have felt completely ignored in recent months, however, despots are not famed for their listening skills.  In any case...over at Vicarage Road...the muscles tighten, the hairs on the back of the neck begin to rise, "Please, Roman, no!"...let the overtures begin.

The Psychology of Expectation: The Decline and Fall of Fernando Torres

The man who once put Vidic on his backside in two rounds at Old Trafford now waits to see if he will be pushed off the cliff by a man who cost one seventh the price.

This afternoon we will find out whether the once fearful Fernando Torres is about to be pushed of the cliff by the manager who brought him to England in 2007. He was once a man who struck fear into the heart of defences across the country.

His dominant performances when leading the line for Liverpool in his early days were like watching a Thunder Cat leap, bound and slide his way, with slightly supernatural verve, past anyone who dared stand in his way.

A mixture of strong running, quick feet and the ability to finish with either foot as well as his head made him without question one of the most complete strikers in the Premier League. However, the attribute that has gone out of his game, which stands out like a sore thumb, is his loss of fight.

The young Spaniard used to leap into challenges like a pouncing lion. He looked like a boy who had been told that his mother was being held hostage back in Spain and, unless he scored a goal, she would never be returned to him. This video, hardly a montage of his finest moments, shows that this fighting spirit and the driving need to win the ball and score goals have left him.

"Demba, I don't want to play anymore!" "There, there Fernando, it's alright, I'm here now."

His past two performances, against QPR and Swansea, which have coincided with the arrival of Demba Ba, have not served to ignite this spirit either. It is as if all Torres wants is a moment away from the spotlight and so he passively awaits that blissful moment when he is nudged out of the starting line-up and eventually forgotten about.

It is like watching a man who has handed in his resignation and is working his notice. The job means nothing any more as he sits at his desk all day dreaming of his cottage in the Sierra Nevada where he will just sit, without worry, in a place where he can just be Fernando Torres the person.

This modern condition of expecting so much from, not only footballers, but people in all walks of life, serves only to increase this sense of longing for a quieter existence somewhere; a simpler life. The higher the expectations, the harder it is to exceed them, even meet them.

In the world of football, it doesn’t matter how Fernando Torres feels; only whether he scores goals. He is no longer the young whippersnapper looking to impress the boss, happy to crush his peers, looking for the next promotion. He is the lonely guy at the top thinking: how did my life become solely about this? Is it really that important to me anymore?

Indignant Chelsea fans will be out for his blood, calling for his head and whatever else unruly mobs call for when they no longer like someone. Their sense of entitlement, sickening to the majority of us – “ ’e cost ‘us’ fifty million an’ ‘e can’t be bovered”  -  cursing and swearing like it was their own money in the first place. They will be travelling up to the Britannia Stadium praying that the name they see on the back of the match day programme is Ba, and not Torres.

To be fair, Torres does not look like a man who is going to break down one of the most miserly defences in the league this year.  Ba, on the other hand, has an air of raw energy and excitement about him. He is one of only 7 premier league players to have a goal ratio that is greater than one goal every other game. Many huge names of Premier League fame cannot say the same, Torres included.

So I fully expect to see Ba start this afternoon; the decline of Fernando Torres complete, only the fall to go. To me, his career will always be a very interesting case of how the psychology of expectation can have unforeseen consequences. 

There is an element of schadenfreude involved in watching a Russian billionaire fritter away his fortune on a Spaniard who doesn't seem that bothered by it. Having seemingly lost one of the most scintillating strikers in recent memory, this, for me, is the silver lining: despite the fact that it dominates the game such a degree, money cannot always buy you everything in football. 

FA Cup 3rd Round: Best day of the footballing calendar, a distraction from the important stuff and everything in-between.

Over the course of this weekend I have come to realise that the FA Cup means many different things to many different people. To some it is the day where anything can happen, the best day in the calendar, an opportunity for a change of scenery, a break from the norm and the heavily-congested festive league deluge.

It is a day when the surviving plucky minnows who have bested several other minnows of equivalent size in the early rounds (some tiddly minnows have even circumnavigated several encounters with slightly larger fish such to get this far) get to pitch their wits against the salmon of the Championship, or, if they are extremely lucky, they might be relishing and/or quaking in their self-cleaned boots at the prospect of entering an arena against a mighty shark of the Premier League!

The excitement, of course, begins weeks in advance with the draw. It is the afternoon where generic-suited TV presenter and generic-suited ex-professional footballer put numbered balls into a pot and draw those numbered balls in a random order in a fit of extremely banal, extremely soporific television. But despite the extreme boringness of the people performing the draw, and the extreme boringness of the procession that is the draw, many of us watch on with excitement, mouths watering at the prospect of a potentially mouth-watering tie that may reinforce our belief that the FA Cup is in fact, a magic cup.

Generic-suited ex-profressional Sammy Nelson on the day he was alleged to have mixed up the number 24 and the number 25 in probably the biggest draw-day controversy in recent history.

The extremes in reaction to the draw really highlight the differences with which people view the FA Cup these days and it is those extremes I am going to focus on because it is much more fun to do so. At one extreme is the aforementioned plucky minnows sitting huddled around their black and white televisions in various garages and sheds around the country, grateful for the fact that the draw is still on terrestrial television.

Despite their surroundings these plucky chaps have had their best suits dry-cleaned for the occasion as they sit of the edges of their fold-out deck chairs, hearts pounding, fingers crossed, praying that they might fulfil their childhood dreams: a trip to a stadium filled with many more seats than they are used to, where the grass is of uniform height and combed as if it were the hair on David Cameron’s head, buildings with exotic names such as “Old Trafford,” or even better “An-field,” where the changing rooms probably even have hot showers.

Then…that moment arrives…all they can hear is the blood pumping around their brains…generic-suited ex-professional reaches into the pot of numbered balls and says “Number 1.” Generic-suited TV presenter with list helpfully clarifies that number 1 is “Manchester United”…could it be? Bu-bum, bu-bum… “Will play…”… “Number 4,271”... “Ha. That’s The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Mechanics, Plasterers and Part-time Accountants Semi-Athletic Football Club Wanderers. Well, what a big day for them!”

It is this moment that really captures the hysteria-ambivalence of the FA Cup. Later, on Sky Sports News you are treated to all the reactions of the different clubs in a round-up of champagne-popping non-plussedness. One camera shot captures an explosion of limbs belonging to mechanics, plasterers and part-time accountants vociferously celebrating the opportunity to play against real-life professional footballers. Later they will admit in interviews that it will be the greatest day of their lives bar none: more important than their wedding day, better than having kids, nothing like it, unbelievable Jeff, whilst their family look on, somewhat wounded by their comments.

By contrast, the next camera shot displays a very different scene. The scene is not a garage full of hysterical plumbers. It is a mild-mannered affair in one of Old Trafford’s several hundred conferencing facilities where Sir Alex Ferguson routinely banquets after vanquishing his enemies. Here there are no players present. They are off lying in post-match flotation tanks before being cryogenically frozen to preserve their 27 year-old ‘peak of their powers’ 0% body fat selves in stasis in preparation for their next titanic struggle with their rival continental, great white shark equivalents.

There is no jumping up and down, no hysteria. Sir Alex Ferguson offers absolutely no glimmer of emotion. He simply jots the name of the team he aims to defeat with as minimal fuss as possible and the date that he will aim to do that on into his burgeoning fixture diary, adjusts his glasses, pops in a fresh chewing gum, stands, tugs the lapels on his 25^th anniversary of being a footballing genius commemorative suit jacket, turns and leaves the room to return to the tactics wing of his success castle. He won’t even waste a thought on the minnows until the big-small, prodigious-insignificant fixture arrives on the first weekend in January. In the meantime he has several substantial Premier League fish to fry whilst accumulating as few injuries and suspensions as possible in an intensive mini-series of squad rotation Masterchef that is the Christmas period.

When the day actually arrives, for the big fish, it is a day of mild inconvenience and damage limitation. The fixture is a potential banana skin, a must avoid impending week of embarrassment, an encounter to avoid shame, ignominy and ridicule in the media, a game that might put them into the history books for all the wrong reasons.

New striker scores a brace for financial behemoths as Chelsea cruise past Premier League opponents Southampton. A day of business-like progression -  no magic, no romance, no fuss, job done.

If they are unlucky enough to have drawn an away fixture, they might be forced to play on a surface more akin to Belgium during the First World War, or the surface of the moon following a sustained meteorite shower, far-removed from the Persian rug their poor players are accustomed to.

That is always one of the most humorous and delightful aspects of the 3^rd round of the FA Cup; seeing the confused and disgruntled look on the face of a Robin Van Persie as the ball he is about to leather into the back of the net that looks like it has been borrowed from a local fishing vessel with all his might whilst uttering “Cashback” under his breath. Instead, the ball cheekily bobbles over a divot and over his million pound golden boot to reveal the look of a man thinking “That divot just cost me 10 grand!...oh well…no biggie.”

For the have-nots, it is a day of destiny! A day that could define history! At least a small chunk of the history of a small chunk of their lives, and an even smaller chunk of the history of their small club that may or may not be bankrupt by the end of the season. But on the day it feels so much more than that. It is a day on which nothing else matters. It offers the chance to bring low one of the greatest football clubs in the history of the world! A chance to test one’s mettle against the select few who have been anointed “world-class” by none other than Paul Merson.

The Macc Lads, post-giantkilling . Runaway Championship leaders defeated by mid-table conference no-hopers. This classic 'cupset' will live in the memories for perhaps up to three seasons.

It is a chance to change an entire town from a drab recession-blighted shedhole into a place of unbridled joy, of magic FA Cup ecstasy, a party town for one day. It is a chance for one moment of FA Cup glory that may be remembered by football fans up and down the country for at least a couple of seasons, one night of head-exploding joy, 2 ½ minutes on ITV’s highlights show that has been sky plussed by one of your full-time accountant mates that actually has Sky+ with the sports package. But he will never have this:  a chance of becoming an immortal, an FA Cup giant killer, the main protagonist in the hugely annoying play on words that is “a cupset” of biblical proportions, a day when hope springs eternal.

To sum up, it is the fact that the FA Cup can mean such different things to so many different fans and players that make it an interesting, entertaining and relevant competition. Regardless of the outcomes of the fixtures, it still offers opportunities for David to slay Goliath and it is them having that opportunity that is important, not whether the Champions League teams take it seriously enough, or whether people care as much about it as they used to. It is so rare to see the big teams squirming uncomfortably in their surroundings in a sort of lose-lose, do we really care? No, but in a way, yes, let’s just get through this bubble of vulnerability whilst the rest of the country revels in a sort of win-win, let’s have a bloody good day out, sing ‘til our throats are raw, put it up ‘em bubble of hopes and dreams.

When all is said and done, most of the swimmers make it through, but there are always, always and few that get caught up in the net and are devoured in a frenzied, piranha-like, non-league football feast. And for those victorious against the odds, it is a special weekend. For those defeated and humiliated at the hands of so-called ‘lesser opposition’, they can still return home with their pride slightly dented, tails between their legs, bemoaning that penalty decision, or the missed one-on-one, and once there is enough distance between themselves and the unbearably embarrassing occasion, they can console themselves with “Well…at least we can focus on the league.”

New Era at Vicarage Road Has That Reassuring Touch of Class

As the geniality of the Pozzo takeover becomes apparent, initial scepticism gives way to euphoric optimism…

This year has been a year of huge change and upheaval at Watford. Such change that it feels like we’ve just woken up to find somebody has completely redecorated our house. After the initial shock, bemoaning the loss of a perfectly well-decorated house and the feelings of defensiveness given that, after all, it was ours and we managed just fine, we have started to realise that, whoever was responsible probably has an MBA in Interior Design and pretty much knows that the new chandelier is going to look good once you get used to it.

For me, this is how the Pozzo revolution took place: First I hear that Sean Dyche had been sacked, the new owners had recruited an army of foreign loanees to replace our beloved home-grown talent, and an Italian dwarf who, whilst an incredibly dazzling and talented striker in his day, had already tried and failed at West Ham and clearly wouldn’t know his Sea Gulls from his Wolves! 

The new team sheet could have consisted of the Italian synchronised swimming team for all I knew of them. Even now I hear people at the ground say “I’m still getting used to the players’ names,” or “Who’s that one?” “Which one?” “The guy wearing number 879.” A slight exaggeration perhaps, but the new reign at Vicarage Road started with a flurry of activity that left many fans thinking “What are they doing to my club!?”

It was like an episode of Extreme Makeover Home Edition where the poor people are left to watch their house being destroyed by a troop of crazed d-list celebrities in a fit of self-congratulatory, self-publicising philanthropy and emotion before the frenzied, sleepless rebuild leaves behind a new castle while the family are left to sit in isolation wondering what has become of their home? Would they like the new all-singing, all-dancing snazzapad left behind? Would it be…them?

Indeed, could this new foreign fellow with his 5-3-2 formation really be trusted? Will all these loan players gel? Do they realise they are going to have to track back and are expected to make manly tackles? Aren’t they all unmitigated cheats who are out to deceive officials and roll about on the ground at the slightest contact? And of course the classic: How will they cope up in Barnsley on a cold December night? Well, maybe on the rolling about point, one or two of the new recruits may have some answering to do, but on the rest, I think we have our answers.

It took me until the second-half of the Huddersfield game away at the McAlpine Stadium to become rather excited about the season ahead. The Forestieri-fired, Messi-esque, dribble-dazzle, swan diving, favella jig and the Deeney-dozer, 'good feet for a big man', thunder hammer, jailbreak, little and large combination suddenly clicked for 45 minutes of swing jazz football that just left me wanting more.  Defensive frailties aside (we seem to have great difficulty defending crosses when Fitz Hall is not in the side) and the occasional inevitable Almuniageddon, a lot of the football this year has been a pleasure to watch and, I believe, will only continue to improve under the current stewardship.

Although we seem to have this dynamic ability to conjure something good or something disastrous from nothing at both ends of the pitch, there is also a more calming, patient aspect to our game too. For the first time I can remember, we have players who can take their time on the ball. This is where the Italian influence is most evident. As with dinner in Italy…you don’t rush. 

In previous years I have always been irritably occupying the edge of my seat, convinced with every passing second that we were about to lose possession. English players (a few exceptions aside) largely look uncomfortable with the ball at their feet and would much rather see it up in the air heading into their opponent’s half than suffer the ignominy of being tackled by another player. It would damage their precious yet fragile egos too much. 

This year, however, it is not uncommon to see players in yellow look like the ball is supposed to be at their feet, and if not, they are ready to receive the ball into their feet, no matter where they are on the pitch. There are actually players calmly knocking the ball about, on the ground, across the back line…just keeping hold of the ball. This mode has me feeling as though I am tucked up in bed with a hot water bottle safe in the knowledge that we have the ball. It is this season’s Barolo, to last season’s Carling Black Label; smooth and sophisticated versus functional and low-budget; Italian vs British even.

But the best thing about the year so far is undoubtedly the fact that this exciting progress on the pitch is being met with stability and confidence off it. The people running the club, I believe, have the best interests of the club at heart and have a realistic vision for the future. A vision that is still very much in-keeping with the things that have always made me proud of being a Watford supporter: the community work and role of the club within the town, and the development of young players. The vision is greater than that, but the fact that it encompasses those things is important. 

There is a confidence about the new regime that suggests that it is all under control, they have done it all before: in Italy, and in Spain. There is an air of inevitability that the processes are in place to take the club forward. In comparison to how the club has been treated over the past decade it is extremely reassuring. It feels like a football club ought to feel: stable off the pitch and exciting on it. 

It is as if we have been whisked off our feet by a new man. Not the man who used to stumble in drunk, start a fight then sit in front of a big screen TV they’ve just bought with your money and ignore your entire existence. No, this guy is going to take us out for country walks, pay for holidays and look after the kids. There is an air that everything is going to be alright now. And if the club continues to be run with a touch of class, then fellow Hornets fans, take heart.

For some more positive comment on the Hornet's this season, check out this article:

 
Watford Are A Good Team Get Used To It