From the Spot of the Foul

I Want My Football Free

Hey Mark:

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

 

Now look at them teens,

that's the way they do it

They watch their football on computer screens!

TV ain't workin'

that's the way they do it

Football by subscription on computer screens!

 

TV ain't workin',

that's the way they do it

Lemme tell ya, that’s not the way we done.

Maybe spill your beer on your wife’s best throw,

Maybe spill your beer on your girlfriend’s bum.

 

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

 

They’re gonna give us England and Ukraine

Only on a little computer screen.

We got to get our football on the telly.

We got to get it back on a TV!

 

The little faggot

in the corner with the laptop,

Yeah, buddy, that's his own hair!

That little faggot

got his own private business,

That little faggot he's a millionaire!

 

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

 

I should’a learned some skill with a keyboard.

I should’a learned to use a f*ckin’ PC.

Look at that mama, she got it workin' on the wireless

Man we could have some

And he's up there, what's that called, a Bluetooth?

Talkin’ on his phone while watchin’ Man. City!

 

TV ain't workin'

that's the way they do it

Football by subscription on computer screens!

 

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

 

Now look at them teens,

that's the way they do it

They watch their football on computer screens!

TV ain't workin'

that's the way they do it

Football by subscription on computer screens! 

Football by subscription on computer screens!

 

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

I want my, I want my, I want my football free

 

I want my football free…

I want my football free…

 

Regards,

Despondent English Football Fan

BACKGROUND

5 October 2009  End of an era as England qualifier moves online.

How Many Fingers Do You See?

Dear Massimo,

How many fingers do you see?

Is it one, or are there three?

“There’s one!” I shouted. “Only one!”

“For three would not make sense to me.”

 

A baseball ump would not do that.

Would he do that? He wouldn’t do that.

A basketball ref would not do that.

Would he do that? He wouldn’t do that.

A football ref would not do that.

Would he do that? He wouldn’t do that.

A hockey ref would not do that.

Would he do that? He wouldn’t do that.

 

But, Massimo Busacca, you did do that!

You did do that! You did do that!

But, Massimo Busacca, you did to that!

You did do that! You did do that!

 

They must have called your mother a whore.

Or something like that. Or something like that.

They must have called your sister a whore.

Or something like that. Or something like that.

 

But, Massimo Busacca, you can’t do that!

You’re better than that! You’re better than that!

But, Massimo Busacca, you can’t do that!

You’re better than that! You’re better than that!

Best,

Theodor Seuss Geisel

BACKGROUND

21 Sep 2009   Swiss Ref Banned Over Fan Insult

Your Revolution is Now Being Televised

Dear Emmanuel Adebayor,

 

Your Revolution Is Now Being Televised!

You will not be able to stay home, brother.

You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.

You will not be able to lose yourself on ska and skank,

skip out on your new-found commitment

to your new crest on your blue breast,

because your revolution is now being televised.

 

Your revolution is now being televised.

Your revolution is being brought to all

around the world by Sky Sports

in two halves every week,

each half without commercial interruption.

Your revolution is manifesting not only in your brilliance,

but also in your madness.

Stepping on opponents faces and ankles,

Robin van Persie’s and Cesc Fabregas’.

Each looking like intent to maim former mates.

Your revolution is now being televised.

 

Your revolution is now being televised

from the City of Manchester Stadium, starring mainly yourself.

Who cares about Robinho and Carlos Tevez? But,

Your revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.

Your revolution will not get rid of the nubs.

Your revolution will not make you look five pounds thinner,

Your revolution will simply reveal all that you really are,

because your revolution is now being televised, Brother.

 

 

On Saturday after scoring a goal,

turning around with rage and

running the opposite direction with fury

down the left flank – a 100m dash,

ending with a slide on your knees

in front of your visiting former supporters.

Now you are their poster child - Public Enemy Number One.

Arms stretched out. Are you Jesus?

No, just inciting a riot.

“I now have my pound of your flesh.”

“Go ahead. Deliver your slings and arrows.”

“Your coins and your chairs.”

“I don’t mind.”

“This is my revolution and it’s now being televised.”

 

Watch out!

There are pictures of your every little move

on the pitch by instant replay.

There are pictures of your every little move

on the pitch by instant replay.

Your life is being reduced to slow motion

and still life by the press.

Your revolution is now being chronicled,

is now being televised.

 

Monaco, Arsenal, and eventually Manchester City, too

will all someday become irrelevant to you,

and you won’t care if your agent links you

with Chelsea or Catania, Barcelona or Besiktas

because you must keep running from

all those burning bridges you set afire.

So you've got to remember, Brother.

Your revolution is now being televised.

 

Someday there will be no more highlights

on the eleven o'clock news

and no pictures of you running like the wind

with the ball at your feet.

The fans’ song about your father and mother,

the elephant washer and the whore,

will not be sung any more.     

Then you will no longer be the lightening rod that you are,

now maintained by your own thoughts, feet and deeds.

Someday your revolution will not be televised.

 

Your revolution is now being televised,

is now being televised.

Someday your revolution will not be televised,

will not be televised.

What will you do then?

Your revolution will have no re-runs, Brother.

 

Your revolution will be dead.

 

Peace,

 

Gil Scott-Heron

  

RELATED DRIVEL:

Spotlight: Arsenal’s Adebayor is Manchester City’s Latest Acquisition

 

HISTORICAL NOTE:

 

Gil Scott-Heron is the son of Gil Heron, a Jamacian footballer who was the first black player for the Scottish football club Glasgow Celtic. He died at the age of 87 in Detroit on Thursday 27 November 2008.

 

BACKGROUND:

13 Jan 2006:  Adebayor leaves Monaco for Arsenal.

10 Jun 2008:  What started it all – Adebayor flirts with moving from Arsenal to AC Milan.

18 Aug 2008:  Adebayor signs ”long-term” contract with Arsenal.

1 Sep 2008:  Manchester City Football Club (FC) is acquired by the Abu Dhabi United Group for Development and Investment (ADUG).

12 May 2009:  Audio file of interview with Adebayor.

13 May 2009:  The poisonous influence of Adebayor.

24 Jul 2009:  Adebayor signs with Manchester City and lashes out at former club and coach.

31 Aug 2009:  A look at the Manchester City Revolution.

1 Sep 2009:  Manchester City spend the most on free agents.

10 Sep 2009:  A summary of all the baggage leading up to the Manchester City vs Arsenal match.

11 Sep 2009:  Adebayor fires a shot over the bow prior to match against his former club.

12 Sep 2009:  Manchester City defeat Arsenal 4-2.

12 Sep 2009:  Van Persie reacts to Adebayor after match.

12 Sep 2009:  Adebayor slams Arsenal fans.

14 Sep 2009:  "Roots of a Rampage" - summary article on the buildup to this past weekend's encounter.

16 Sep 2009:  Manchester City FC accepts Football Association’s violent conduct charge of Adebayor.

16 Sep 2009:  Summary from the NY Times.

17 Sep 2009:  Adebayor receives three-match ban for violent conduct.

 

 

What Color's Your Parachute?

Hey Vince,

You may have heard. I just got busted. The suits found ephedrine in my system, which is a banned substance.

I've been banned for 9 months!

I was readin' where you got busted for the same substance and got banned for it, too. But your sentence was 4 games.

Since you guys in the NFL play once a week, that's 1 month. I got 9!

I think what I'm gonna do is become an American footballer. The penalties for drugs over here in Europe are a bit rich for my blood.

Or maybe become a baseball player - they don't ban the stuff in the majors I hear.

Since I've got some time on my hands, do you think I could come over to the States to get some cross-training from you? I'm a pretty good athlete. And, I'm tough as nails. Once I got into a fight in a pub with a friend who confessed to an affair with my wife, and during the brawl, he bit off one of my eyebrows!

I figure I'd fit right in with you guys over there. What do ya think?

Regards,

Paddy

Your Cheatin’ Heart

 

Dear Eduardo,

Well, you got yourself in a little mess, didn't you?

I have been involved in your predicament since your coach termed the campaign to get you banned a "witch hunt".

It has brought back memories: Abigail Williams running around rooms flailing her arms, ducking under chairs, trying to climb up the chimney, and other sordid stuff after she had been dancing in the woods with her cousin, Betty Paris and her uncle's slave from Barbados, Tituba.

Anyway, don't shrug this witch hunt stuff off, Eduardo. It ain't funny. Even in civilized countries, this type of fear mongering to get people banned from a variety of endeavors has happened on a pretty large scale. And methinks your coach thinks that UEFA is following the example of the US Senate of over a half a century ago. I know it's hard to see Michel Platini exactly as Joseph McCarthy's successor. But, hey! Who knows where this will lead? He might be right!

So, if you did drink a little chicken blood before last week's match, my advice to you is not to volunteer such information. Some things are better left unsaid!

I feel for you, Eduardo. Today you have your disciplinary hearing following UEFA's announcement last week, charging you with "deceiving the referee" and acting with "obvious intent to cause a match official to make an incorrect decision."

You know. Diving.

That practice of deception - some call it cheating - which some think will eventually bring down human culture.

But I think you are in good hands. Your club's management has issued a 19-page submission in your defense. Your coach says (watch here) that these charges "are a complete disgrace" and may have "opened a very dangerous door".

And I will likely testify at the hearing as an expert witness, myself having published on the subject of witchcraft.

I was pretty intrigued when I got the call from UEFA to assist, saying they were accused by your coach of conducting a witch hunt and all. When I was surfing YouTube to get some video on your performance, I was expecting to see you on the pitch doing a St. Vitus' Dance.

Well, all I saw (and you can too here) was you dropping like a duck full of buckshot when inside the 18-yard box in order to get a foul called on Celtic's goalkeeper so that your team could be awarded a penalty kick. Nice job. It worked!

You would have made a good stunt man!

But, Eduardo, I must level with you - I'm inclined to agree with the charge of intent to deceive the referee to gain an advantage.

Witchcraft? I saw no head spinning, frothing from the mouth, or any of the more common clinical symptoms of the result of voodoo or similar practices. So I don't think that UEFA will find you a witch, even though they might be looking for one. But you might be labeled as something that in football circles is nearly as treacherous.

But is what you did cheating?

Now that depends totally on your culture. The Brits look at diving as one of the purest and most despicable forms of cheating, because they are consumed with the ideal of the level playing field – fair play – fight like a man, and all that. And they view the referee as the ultimate authority figure in the game – one that should not be duped, deceived, or made to look bad.

However, if you grew up in Italy, for example, you would look at diving as a strategy! The English see the Italians as the dirtiest footballers on the planet. But the Italians use the term furbizia, the art of guile, as I learned from Andrea Tallarita's incredibly insightful article as follows. To Italians, cheating is doing something that your opponent cannot do, or exploiting resources they have no access to. Both sides can commit certain types of fouls, so that is not cheating. Both sides have the ability to take free kicks before the goalkeeper has set, so that is not cheating either. Verbal provocation of one's opponent is a classic form of furbizia (see Materazzi's verbal baiting of France's Zidane in the 2006 World Cup Final, resulting in Zidane's retaliating with a head butt to Materazzi's chest – but Zidane was ejected and Italy went on to win the match and the World Cup).

And yes, diving. A classic form of furbizia. Just watch this for some rather extreme examples.

You see, in Italy, the diver is not so much looked down upon as the referee that doesn't catch the diver. This is not so much strictly Italian football protocol as a natural extension of the total disrespect of authority figures by Italians, as argued in John Foot's fine book on Italian football.

To these footballers, football is an art, sometimes a dark art, art where guile is a major part of the tool box.

So here we have two irreconcilable visions of the same game. The fair-play nature of the English with the referee as a respected figure. The use of guile and gamesmanship of the Italians with the referee serving as the object of total distrust and disrespect.

I don't know where all this is going. I imagine not very far. It's been around for a long time, and will likely be with us years from now.

But a lot of people are out for blood on this issue. They want to make you the poster child of cheating. I don't think it's against you, personally. After all, a year and a half ago, no one garnered more sympathy from the entirety of European football than you did after the horrific injury you suffered in that match at Birmingham City. It is a minor medical miracle that you are playing again, or even walking with the foot you were born with.

But you are now in the cross fire of competing interests. And you may be made the example of a cheat.

You're in The Crucible of determining what for some is good for the game of football.

Unfortunately, it may not be very good for your reputation, win or lose.

Hang in there, son.

Signed,

Arthur

 

 

 

 

UPDATE:

UEFA ruled today that Eduardo will be suspended for two Champions League matches. He will miss Arsenal’s upcoming games at Standard Liege on 16 September and against Olympiacos on 29 September.

Arsenal Football Club have three days to lodge an appeal.

Now the pressure is squarely on UEFA to consistently hand out bans. The real test will come when it is a mega-star player that dives in a crucial part of a big match.

Tom Dunmore over at Pitch Invasion has an interesting take on the situation.

So does Joe Guarr at FoxSoccer.com's Bleacher Report.

FURTHER UPDATE:

Arsenal wins their appeal against UEFA's two-match ban of Eduardo and on 14 September 2009 UEFA overturns the ban.

 

 

Please Take Your Crawler and…

Dear Dave,

When you made television history on 14 January 1952, not only did you host the first Today Show program on NBC, the first of the morning news and talk show genre, and now the third-longest running American television series behind Meet the Press and the CBS Evening News, but you also showed the first news ticker in the history of television broadcasting. By doing so, you really got the ball rolling for something that I'm sure you never thought would make a soccer fan, 57 years later, mad as hell.

A history lesson that you didn't ask for.

It all started with the ticker tape. It was the American stock market that saw fit to use Edward Calahan's 1867 invention of the first stock telegraph printing device, developed further by Thomas Edison with his Universal Stock Ticker in 1869. For decades, these news-transmitting machines had lengthy delays between actual event and transmittion of information. Even in the 1960s, the newer and better tickers had a delay of 15 to 20 minutes.

It was not until 1996 that a ticker-type electronic device could operate in real time. But back in the 1960s the stock tickers were being replaced by computers.

It was television that revolutionized the ticker-tape idea that had manifested throughout the world for over a hundred years.

According to Wikipedia, it was you, Dave, who used a news ticker for the first time as part of a regular broadcast. Your ticker was nothing we would recognize today – it was a piece of paper with typewritten headlines superimposed on the lower third of the screen.

Apparently it didn't last– as a communication tool it was dropped not long thereafter. But several years later, local stations would implement a news ticker to pass along information such as school closings and severe weather warnings.

Then CNN in the 1980s perfected the idea with its regular usage of a news ticker as part of its Headline News station. That ticker showed stock prices during the day and sports scores during the evening and weekend. CNBC and FNN also used this method for transmitting stock prices.

That was what we know today as the crawler, the more modern name for a news ticker.

And that brings us to ESPN. The famous sports network used a crawler to update sports scores and news every 30 minutes, and in 1996, ESPN2 implemented their "BottomLine" as a non-stop crawler of sports information around the clock.

Now, crawlers are everywhere – street corners, bars, casinos, atop places of business, our computer screens and PDAs. I wouldn't be surprised that one day, we'll be able to get one implanted in one in our eyes as part of the Lasik surgery procedure.

Is there a point to any of this rambling?

Oh yes, Saturday morning. This morning.

I just couldn't get out of bed last weekend to watch the first Premier League game broadcast in HD. Anything on TV at 4:30 in the morning is just too early to even contemplate. The only things that exist at that time are bizarre mental images that Freud made a legacy of analyzing and interpreting.

So, it had to wait until this morning, when ESPN2 broadcast live the Wigan Athletic vs Manchester United match from that gawdawful stadium in northeastern England town of Wigan. Game time, 7:00 am PT. Now I can handle that.

The game of interest for me today, however, was to be played at the same time as the ESPN2 match, and to be broadcast on Setanta Broadband. So I knew I could watch that one on my laptop at my leisure when I had more time, didn't have to feed and walk my dogs, eat breakfast, and then go into town for a haircut.

Sometime this afternoon, when I could really absorb it all.

Knowing that my game was waiting for me later in the day, I sat on my sofa this morning and got my first taste of the Premier League in high definition. Pretty stunning. I don't think I'm going to be able to watch games anymore on the crappy resolution that is Fox Soccer Channel and GolTV (I hear that at least FSC is going to HD broadcasting January 1).

Well, as I knew would happen, coffee had to be brewed, breakfast had to be eaten, dogs had to be fed and walked, and a shower was a must after last night's sake binge. So, to say the least, I was pretty distracted until sometime early in the second half when I was back on the sofa with a good half hour to just watch in peace.

G*d d*m! M$%he$ f*ck@* s&n of $ b&%c$

Manchester United scored twice to put the game out of Wigan's reach. Shortly thereafter, ESPN2's news crawler appeared at the bottom of the screen, seemingly designed specifically to put me out of my mind. There it was, in white lettering on a red background, the second-half score of the game in progress that I was planning to savor during the upcoming lazy afternoon on a delayed basis.

Ruined. Nice score. But absolutely ruined.

I like my sports like I think most people do – in the dark as far as the eventual outcome is concerned.

Apparently ESPN2 doesn't get that.

When you watch a Premier League game on Fox Soccer Channel, there are no scores of other games put on the screen or mentioned by the match announcers. I am sure that is by design. With respect for their viewers. They know that today, most people can quickly monitor the score of another game with other means.

But not ESPN.

Thanks, ESPN, for bringing my favorite viewing pastime to American Television. But you've got a bit to learn about your viewer's habits.

Dave, if you were alive, you'd be amazed by the world of today's television.

And, if you had developed a love for watching European soccer on TV, you'd be as bummed as I am.

Regards,

Despondent Premier League Viewer

 

I’m So Tired

Dear Oskar,

I am sick to death of the transfer window – please just send me a list at the end of every August that tells me where everyone went so that we all can just get on with playing football.

But I'm not the only one - even players are tired of all the crap being published every day about who might come here and who might transfer there. Brede Hangeland, the Fulham defender, and been linked in the press this summer to Aston Villa, Manchester City, Tottenham Hotspur, and Arsenal.

Brede was quoted as saying, "There are probably a lot of people who are sick of seeing me in the newspapers and I'm one of them."

And now the Premier League says that it is extending the transfer window a day to EOB Tuesday September 1.

My head feels like it's on fire and at the same time being pounded by a nine-pound hammer. I give up. I'll do anything. Just make it stop.

Thanks for your consideration.

Spot of the Foul

 

I Want F*ckin’ Goal Line Technology!

Dear Keith Hackett,

Thanks and all for the apology.

Part of your f*ckin' job as Referees' Chief, I suppose…

But your f*ckin' referee, that f*ckin' Rob Shoebridge, f*ckin' bottled it but f*ckin' good on Saturday.

I'm f*ckin' sick and f*ckin' tired of getting' f*ckin' cheated all the f*ckin' time.

First it was gettin' f*ckin' relegated when coaching up at f*ckin' Sheffield United, because of that f*ckin' bankrupt Icelandic egghead Bjorgolfur Gudmundsson signing that f*ckin' Quasimodo illegally who led f*ckin' West Ham to f*ckin' stay up two years ago when we f*ckin' should have.

Still chaps my f*ckin' ass, Keith.

Now because of all that f*ckin' injustice, I'm toiling down here in the f*ckin' second level of English football, and I'm just tryin' to keep my f*ckin' head above the f*ckin' water.

Then Saturday, we're playin' over at that fuckin' Bristol City, and my man Freddie Sears SCORES A F*CKIN' GOAL in the 30^th minute (see here THE F*CKIN' GOAL THAT NEVER WAS if you don't f*ckin' believe me), but your f*ckin' blind mice can't give our side the f*ckin' goal because they're F*CKIN' BLIND!

Hey, and get this f*ckin irony – Freddie's on load to us from f*ckin West Ham!!! That f*ckin' club is still f*cking beating my balls!

But it's not only your f*ckin' incompetent pikers.

The f*ckin' Bristol City players and coaches all f*ckin' knew that Freddie scored that f*ckin' goal. AND THEY DIDN'T SAY A F*CKIN' WORD!

That's f*ckin' cheating!

And now I read in the f*ckin' Guardian that I might get f*ckin disciplined for speakin' the f*ckin' truth!

I'll f*ckin' say it again just like I said it on f*ckin' BBC:

"We can put a man on the moon,

time serves of 100 miles per hour at Wimbledon,

yet we cannot place a couple of sensors in a net to show when a goal has been scored."

Please, for f*ck sake, Keith – lean on the f*ckin' FA – lean on any f*ckin'body you can – we need f*ckin goal line technology.

Of course I know that f*ckin' French f*cker Michael Platini won't go for it because that f*ckin' idiot believes that the "human element" of refereeing must be retained.

I'll show him a f*ckin' human element. What kind of f*ckin' viewpoint is that? Baseball for godsake, the most conservative sport next to cricket, now has video replay for some aspects of that f*ckin' boring drivel.

Thanks for your f*ckin' time.

I f*ckin' appreciate it.

 

Signed,

F*ckin' Neil Warnock

Manager of F*ckin' Crystal Palace Football Club, London

Do You Smell Gas?

Dear Norwich City Football Club,

Since I last wrote, you've made me very proud. I watching over you with such glee over the little disaster that you are continuing to foster for yourselves.

I love the sense of panic and terror. Sacking manager Brian Gunn after the disastrous season opener, who you had named caretaker manager after the exit of Glenn Roeder this past January and promoted to "permanent" manager in May. Must have been because of those season ticket holders I sent down to the pitch to tear up their tickets and throw them at Gunn in front of God and everybody last Saturday.

Splendid, really. One point from the first two games. You're on to a winner.

And now you put assistant Ian Butterworth in charge. And look what a nice start he's gotten off to. A tidy tie on Saturday at little Exeter City.

Mother! Please! I'm writing to my Friends over in southeastern England.

I'm sorry. My Mother, she's always interrupting…

Anyway.

There's no sense in dwelling on our losses. We'll just keep on lighting the lights and following the formalities.

I'm paying attention, my good friends.

Keep up the good work, will you?

Signed,

Norm

 

RELATED DRIVEL:

No Animals Were Harmed During the Writing of This Post

 

Nyet, Arsene

Dear Mr. Wenger,

Well, you've gone and done it now.

Your little destruction of Everton at Ewood Park on Saturday is not supportive of my plan.

Look, I've put my big, fat neck (see picture below) on the line with my statements this past spring. I have money. We can spend it on players to get us to the Promised Land, for goodness sake.

I've been openly critical of you and your continual tinkering in the garage at night on your legacy project - developing these juveniles to do it your way. I've told the Arsenal Board of Directors over and over that this is a failed strategy, and a failed strategy in this economy with the club's debt where it is will bring ruin.

And the threat of ruin would be where I come in.

By refusing to spend money in the summer to get some big names with big-time experience, you gave me the opening I needed to convince the Arsenal Board of Directors that I have the answer, that I am the answer. So far, they've said they would listen to me, but in the end they've rejected me. I think the Board likes that idiotic American whose only great business strategy has been to marry a Wal-Mart heir. And the club's chief executive preaches all of that sustainability crap.

So, all I needed was for you to stubbornly keep to your goddamned sure-to-fail principles, maybe even lose in the upcoming Champions League Playoff Round against Glasgow Celtic and get eliminated before the Group Stage – all that expected and badly needed revenue out the window – and then as a few draws and losses would mount up in the league play, near-mutiny would spread through the supporters faster than the H1N1 virus.

Then January would come, another opportunity to buy needed players, but you would continue to refuse to spend money so as not to compromise your belief in your philosophies, and the club would find it staring at Manchester City's backside in a race for the Big Four.

And the Board would look to me.

But, instead… would you like the knife back that you just stabbed me with on Saturday?

All was working just fine until your squad played like they can beat anybody, anywhere, anytime – a stunning display of football played your way with your players under your philosophy. You served notice on Saturday to the footballing world that this might be the year that you and your unconventional approach may be validated.

Everybody has taken notice.

People will now start to really believe in your madness.

You look like a goddamned principled genius.

And I look like a fatcat, blowhard, criminal from a backwater of the old USSR.

Thanks for nothing.

Signed,

Alisher Usmanov