Bleacher Report - Articles by Duncan MacDowall

Watching the Haye Fight in an Irish Bar, in Kilburn

Duncan MacDowall — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 11:35:58 -0500

The Corrib Rest in Kilburn, North West London is a large bar situated in an area with the biggest Irish population in London. Designed as an Irish cultural and arts centre, it was commonly seen as a parting gift to the local populace from its minister of parliament, the soon to be Mayor of London, Ken Livingstone—who at that time was viewed as an espouser of the Republican cause.

It soon grew to resemble just another of the tens of thousands of London's Irish pubs. However, its 'Irishness' is clearly defined. Novels by Joyce, Maeve Binchy, and Frank McCourt join the poems of Yeats and Seamus Heany and are stacked prominently amongst the alcoves.

While Guinness, Murphy's, Bushmills, and Magners Cider are foremost behind the jump, and the many sports screens always show the available GAA sports.

Apart from the lavish function rooms upstairs and the odd bit of traditional Irish dancing, the pub is generally patronised as a sports bar. The big football matches draw large packed crowds, especially if any of the big three London clubs are playing—Arsenal, Chelsea, or Tottenham Hotspur—and even more so if the national team are playing—England that is—as a majority of the second generation Irish, the children of the '50s and '60s émigrés, have given their allegiance to the country of their birth.

This was where I ended up watching the Haye fight.

The fight started at 10 PM but by 9.30 PM the bar was full, the table spaces taken early, maybe 250 people. The crowd was surprisingly different from the football games, maybe three, four, whole tables taken by groups of 30-something black males.

And a good number of late middle-aged men, both black and white, many with their wives and lady-friends, of whom a good few sported the clearly distinguishing features of the ex-pugilist—the men, that is.

The direct grouping of people around me was something of an eclectic mix. There was a bar manager, an artisan plumber (whatever that may be), three non-working but impeccably mannered Cocaine dealers, a scandal rag journalist and a compiler of crossword puzzles, with a specialism in the cryptic format.

There were also three very attractive young ladies; one white, one mixed race and one with an American accent, who turned out to be Australian.

The atmosphere pre-fight was again very different from the football crowd. Nobody was openly drunk, though everybody was drinking. The black guys were 'out-Irishing' the Irish, and all to a man on pints of Guinness, as were the Cocaine dealers, probably as a lifestyle counterweight—as it's seen as a healthier drink than lager. The rest were on a mixture of beer, red wine, and vodka.

It was however, strangely quiet. People talking to each other in hushed voices, discussing the pros and cons of the fight. Prediction-wise there seemed to be no clear favourite, most people expecting Haye to win but not really sure how the fight would go; mainly due to the unnatural size and weight advantage of the Russian champion, and unvoiced fears about the sturdiness of David Haye's chin.

When the fighters came out and were introduced to the crowd there were resounding cheers for Haye, shouts of "C'mon David” but once the fight actually started there wasn't very much noise at all. The reason being nothing much seemed to happen.

The first few rounds were spent with Valuev stalking Haye, while Haye bobbed, weaved, and manoeuvred, making Valuev miss nearly all of the time, whilst throwing scoring combination one-twos of his own, which hit the mark but seemed to number no more than a maximum of four a round.

It was a strange fight and it continued that way through the middle rounds. Valuev missing, Haye hitting, but not following up and seemingly content to rely on the judges scoring the fight accurately, which can be a dangerous tactic on German soil. Germany has an ominous reputation for home-fighter decisions with, in particular, some of Sven Ottke's fights in the nineties being spectacularly laughable.

It was maybe the memory of this that affected Sky Sports Scottish co-commentator Jim Watt, the ex-world lightweight champion. Watt began to have Valuev ahead on points. Which was strange (as it was debatable whether Valuev had actually scored a point) but understandable in the context of home-town decisions. But then again un-understandable as Valuev was not German but Russian.

Maybe it can be put down to the uniquely Scottish air of despondency that Jim Watt has always had around him. He often resembles the John Laurie character in the 70s British TV wartime comedy "Dads Army," who at the slightest hint of adversity would immediately exclaim "We're all doomed, doomed!"

By the time we had gotten round to the last three rounds, the same or similar thought was beginning to loom large in the minds of our collected audience. The black guys were muted, looking down into their pints of Guinness. The old pugilists were rubbing at the scar tissue over their eyes, or rubbing the backs of their ladies.

The Cocaine dealers were becoming less interested in the fight and more interested in the three young women, while the plumber had started talking about the private job he was doing the next day, which featured a bidet.

Then suddenly, in the final round it all changed. Haye attacked and rocked Valuev with heavy blows. The giant wobbled and the bar went berserk. The black guys leapt up, the pugilists put up their dukes, and the white girl amongst the three attractive ones knocked a bottle of red wine over my jeans. I didn’t care, no one cared. To a man the whole crowd screamed “Finish him David!” and “There’s still time!”

There wasn’t. The final round ended and the euphoria of moments before dissipated as the scorecards were counted. It was a tense time. The Haye corner looked confident, even as they applied the salve to a swelling on their fighters face.

Haye looked surprisingly marked for a man that hadn’t been hit. Valuev remained impassive, seemingly emotionless. The thought passed through everyone’s mind. Maybe the fix was in? Maybe Jim Watt was right? Maybe we were all doomed?

And then the score cards were read out. One drawn and two unanimous decisions. A majority win for the new champion, David Haye! The bar erupted again. Everyone shook hands. Everyone was friends. The Cocaine dealers hugged the girls. The plumber hugged the crossword artist. I went over to the black guys and discussed the future. Who would it be next. The Klitschko’s? Could he beat Vitali? The answer. “Who knows?”

I returned to my place just in time for Haye’s post fight interview. It was only then I realised that he’d been in a real fight. The emotion he showed talking about how he had dreamed of the title since he was a kid. It was moving and it was also surprising. Sometimes you forget the sacrifice, the years of training that go into making a day like this.

And no matter the standard of the bout it’s amazing how popular boxing still is. How it brings people together from all segments of society in a common cause-especially with someone like David Haye; bright, personable, handsome; not entrenched in one particular community but capable of representing them all. A symbol of a new London, a new Britain.

Full of these heady thoughts I finished up my drink and said goodbye to the rest of the table. The good feeling endowed by the fight had been endemic, everyone was happy. The Cocaine dealers had persuaded the girls to join them in a night of celebration, the scandal journalist had learnt of two new celebrities with drug issues, the cryptic crossword master had thought up a two part clue for the word elixir , and the plumber was in the toilet.

I left them all with my thoughts oddly turning to Nicolai Valuev. He seemed like a decent person and I felt sorry for him. Maybe it was time to call it a day. Retire to the steppes and breed giant children. Hopefully he’d earned enough money in the sport to spend the rest of his days doing whatever he wanted. I hoped so.

An Introduction To David Haye for American Fight Fans

Duncan MacDowall — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 11:16:20 -0500

Earlier this year Ken Buchanan, the great Scottish ex WBC lightweight champion, made press headlines, when he stated a desire to return to the ring at the age of 63.

He gave his reasoning as it being the only way left in his life that he could make any money.

The story plucked at the heart-strings of those who remembered him in his days of glory and became part of the catalogue of sad boxing tales amongst the thousands of broken and financially ruined ex-fighters.

Now this might appear to be something of a tangent in an article headlined as introducing David Haye, the heavyweight challenger to Nicolai Valuevs’ WBC crown in Nuremburg, Germany on Saturday night but I believe that the two stories are intimately connected, and in a way, go to explain the way Haye has gone about publicising both this fight and his previously cancelled fight against Vitali Klitschko.

In the build-up to this fight, and indeed the cancelled bout, Haye has been vilified for his sensationalist publicity stunts. He was pictured holding the severed heads of the Klitschko brothers in a magazine shoot and this time he has managed to knock the head off a cardboard cut out of the giant Valuev at a press conference.

He has also made disparaging remarks across the spectrum about his current opponents’ physical features, his hairiness, his gigantism (as an illness) and so on.

In America the popular term for Hayes’ antics is smack talk or talking smack. There isn’t a clear English equivalent for this phrase, though in Hayes’ south east London birthplace in Bermondsey they might say he was “digging them out” or perhaps the more modern “mugging them off”, but neither phrase is completely appropriate because what Haye is solely doing is Promoting the Fight.

And here we go back to Ken Buchanan and the long list of retired fighters who felt they never earned enough money out of the fight game, out of the hard toil and sweat of their efforts.

Instead others became rich. Fight promoters taking their heavy cuts, corruption and political manoeuvring in the governing bodies, boxers never getting the big fights their efforts deserved, till eventually the disillusioned boxing public recognised this and the sport declined.

However, in recent years there has been a new trend. Top boxers self-promoting their own bouts; Golden Boy with Oscar De la Hoya and Floyd Mayweather; Joe Calzaghe vs Roy Jones Jr.

David Haye is part of this new movement. He has pulled away from the traditional fight promoters, and in tandem with his eloquent trainer, Adam Booth, has set up his own promotional company; Hayemaker. Their desired goal: boxers keeping more of the money that their sweat, their toil, deserves.

It’s in light of this that Haye’s fight publicising activity should be viewed. The posters may say David v Goliath, but it has more of an air of comic book about it than dark, biblical myth.

Hayes' taunting is tongue in cheek, we can dismiss the severed heads. This isn’t Mike Tyson talking death and malicious harm, in a way that you believed him. It isn’t Riddick Bowe throwing sucker punches at press conferences, nor Bernard Hopkins playing the race card, that isn’t the style of the man.

David Haye is sociable, charming, eloquent and funny, yet not above poking fun at himself, as well as others. A very different type of man to the ruling pan-Russian oligarchs of the heavyweight division.

Valuev, Chaguev, the Klitschko brothers appear decent men, good men, family men, and in the case of the Klitschko’s; politically aware, well educated, even enlightened social reformers. All of which are commendable, but in a promotional sense they have been fundamentally boring. Like the division itself.

The heavyweight division, the blue-ribbon division of boxing, has for some time, had a tired, moribund air to it. The Klitschko brothers dominate in a predictable fashion overwhelming underwhelming opposition with a combination of superior physical conditioning and accurate straight punching.

There has been no one to truly challenge them. For various socio-economic reasons the rich mother-lode of African-American big men has run dry. But the question remains. Should it be like that?

Vitali Klitschko is 38, Valuev 36, Wladimir Klitschko 34. In a healthy division you would suspect that these men should be past their prime. Retired or ready to retire.

And now along comes David Haye, moving up from the cruiserweight ranks. At 29 he stands at the peak of his physical powers. At six foot three and weighing around 16 stone, he is about the height and weight of Muhammed Ali in his prime. The size and weight of a true heavyweight champion?

Haye stands poised to tear down the walls of the Russian giants and restore the division to its rightful pre-eminence. All along he has talked the talk, now all that stands before him is a seven foot Russian and a lingering suspicion of "chinniness." The fun and games are over, come Saturday in Nuremburg it’s time to walk the walk…

For those interested I've posted a favourite link as an insight to the David Haye personality.

On the Trouble in the Chelsea End: Blame the Football Association

Duncan MacDowall — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 07:56:40 -0400

The 2009 FA Cup final at the new Wembley Stadium, Chelsea v Everton; witness the scene.

Twenty-six seconds in, Louis Saha swivels on the edge of the area, strikes the ball. He beats Petr Cech on the near post and GOAL...the hordes of celebrating Evertonians, in one half of the stadium, go wild.

In the end holding the Chelsea fans there is a different emotion; shock, a stunned silence. This isn’t meant to be happening, this isn’t the script.

This is the mighty Chelsea, strong in midfield, physically strong; Packed with talent, with world-class players; playing against honest, workmanlike, Everton. This should not be happening.

It’s worse than that for the Chelsea fan. The assembled superstars of the Russian oligarch’s millions are returning to the field after the travesty of the Barcelona Champions League semi-final; a game that hinged on the decisions of a woefully over-matched Norwegian referee; a game they should have won.

And they’ve just seen that same Barcelona side go on to dismantle Manchester United in the final, playing a style of football that has been lauded throughout the world. It could have been Chelsea, it could have been them; it should have been them.

There is a stunned silence in the Chelsea end, not quite. There are small pockets of supporters, shaking each others hands, hugging each other. In the relative silence you can hear the distinctive accents, the most recognizable accents in the country. There are Scousers in the Chelsea end; Everton fans.

There is no longer a silence in the Chelsea end; there are murmurings, people looking around. They notice now, the same true-blue shirts, the ones with a different logo on the front, the club colours; Everton.

People are standing up; there’s shouting, anger. You hear the comments, a different accent now; London accents. “What are they doing in here?” “This is a fucking liberty.”

The Everton players are still celebrating as the procession starts; the Everton fans in the Chelsea end walking quickly down the aisles, 30 or 40, looking about nervously; some holding the arms of friends, helping them, bloodied friends.

One, two, three, four, bleeding. One with blood streaming from an ear, another with a white handkerchief clutched to his face, blood spurting from an obviously broken nose. They make their way to an exit point, and safety?

Wembley Stadium 2009, on the forecourt, by the turnstiles at entrance P, at the Chelsea end. It’s 20 minutes before kick-off; witness the scene.

A Chelsea fan waits, looking at his watch. He’s waiting for his son, his son is late, he’s always late. He shakes his head and looks at his watch again, thinks to himself “Wasn’t it hard enough getting him the ticket and he can’t even be on time?”

The Chelsea fan is a season ticket-holder; he’s a life-long Chelsea supporter. Partisan when it comes to football, but in essence a humane man. He’s only got this spare ticket for his son at the last moment when someone dropped out and he doesn’t want to miss the game.

He looks along the forecourt, looking for his son and see’s a group of supporters coming towards him. They’re all in blue shirts, it’s only when they get up close and he hears them speak that he realises that these are not Chelsea fans, they’re Everton in the same blue.

One of them approaches him, a ticket in his hand and says, in the distinctive accent.

“Excuse me mate, we’re looking for Entrance P, we’ve been all over the place.”

The Chelsea fan looks them up and down, looks at the Everton football shirts, looks at the ticket in the man’s hand. He shakes his head and sighs, says.

“This is entrance P mate, but this is the Chelsea end,” he asks “Where did you get your tickets from?”

The Everton fan, understanding the nuance of the question immediately, replies.

“We didn’t get them off a tout mate, we got these off the FA. I’m a referee, we’ve all got FA tickets.” He points to his friends. “They’re referees, he runs a Sunday league club, he’s on the board of a semi-pro team, all of us are connected.”

The Chelsea fan sighs, he looks down the forecourt and sees more Everton fans in their shirts coming towards the turnstile. As they gather he says.

“Gents, a word to the wise. You cannot go in there like that, look at you; you’re all in your colours. It’s not safe.”

Another of the Everton fans answers. “What can we do mate, we’re not hooligans, we’ve just come to see the game. We’ve been waiting 20 years for this.” He points to one of his friends. “He’s come all the way from Orlando for this match.”

The Chelsea fan looks at his watch. “Let’s have a word with one of the stewards, see if they can get you into the other end, maybe you can swap with someone, There must be Chelsea fans in the same situation.”

They follow him to the entrance. The conversation is swift, the reply from the young stewards negative. They can’t do anything.

The eager Everton fans begin to stream in, the game is soon starting. It’s the Chelsea fan who is most vociferous; he understands elements of his own support. “There must be something you can do, look at them, they’re wearing their own colours,” he says.

“All we can suggest is they turn their shirts inside out, and that they go in there at their own risk,” says the steward.

“And that’s it?”

“Yeah, it’s kicking off in there already but that’s all we can do.”

One of the last Everton fans going in hears this, turns his shirt out and thanks the Chelsea fan for his trouble.

“Good luck,” says the Chelsea fan, and goes back to wait for his son.

Epilogue

Chelsea are just preparing to re-start the game after Everton’s opening goal.

In the Chelsea end the Chelsea fan’s son turns to him and says.

“Jesus dad, did you see the blood coming out of that Everton fan’s nose. What were they thinking of coming in our end?”

In reply the Chelsea fan says.

“It wasn’t their fault son, you can blame the FA for that one. They’ve obviously forgotten why we have segregation in the first place. Maybe all this talk about the new football supporter has made them forget about the old ones. They should be ashamed.”

“What do you mean dad?” asks the son.

His dad gives him a playful clip around the ear.

“If you ever turned up on time you’d know what I was talking about. Now let’s watch the game. C’mon CHELSEA.”

Is Alex Ferguson Still Looking for Eric?

Duncan MacDowall — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 08:39:37 -0400

The 2009 Champions League final between Manchester United and FC Barcelona, and United’s eventual, comprehensive defeat, posed interesting questions of a tactical nature about the psychological mindset of their manager Alex Ferguson.

Sir Alex’s status in the game as an over-achieving top-flight manager is unchallengeable. Since his early days at Aberdeen through to his long tenure at Man United he has consistently produced successful winning sides.

He has brought through fabulous young players; Giggs, Beckham, Scholes come to mind. And he has made great signings, never being afraid to put his chequebook where his convictions led him.

Rio Ferdinand came in for a (unheard of for a defender) fee of £30 million. Wayne Rooney (as a teenager) for £26 million. Both have repaid their patron’s faith and judgement.

Arguably, or maybe not, his greatest signing in all his years in football was the capture of Eric Cantona from his influential (but bit-part) role as a super-sub at championship winning Leeds and the transformation of the player into an iconic legend of Manchester to rival George Best.

Alex Ferguson and Eric Cantona are inextricably entwined. The ‘enfant terrible’ of French football had finally found a manager who had faith in him and who recognised his talent. Under Ferguson he blossomed, he did more, he bloomed.

From late in 1992 to 1997 Cantona starred at Old Trafford and Ferguson revelled in his play. He supported him through thick and thin. Cantona’s assault trial (when he kung-fu kicked a Crystal Palace fan at a game in 1994) came and went. Ferguson later made him captain.

In 1997, when Cantona realised his form was waning and promptly retired from the game, the red half of Manchester mourned. For Ferguson there wasn’t that luxury. He had responsibilities; he had one of the largest clubs in the world to manage.

Outwardly dour working-class Scot that he is Ferguson applied himself to the task in hand. He rebuilt, he continually rebuilds. He won the Champions league in 1998, won it again in 2008. This year he was defeated in the final. And it was this year that the first hint appeared of how he had missed Eric.

In the 2008 final Carlos Tevez played as the central striker and was Manchester United’s unheralded man of the match. Tevez is small, compact and powerful with superlative close control.

The ball came up to him, it stuck. He laid it off, he chased everything, every lost cause. Tevez is a two-time South American footballer of the year and one of the best players in the world. But he wasn’t Eric.

In his secret heart, Sir Alex still pines for Eric. He misses his tall imposing target man with the exquisite touch, the colossal vision. This season he made an attempt to assuage his yearning. He bought Dimitri Berbatov from Tottenham.

Berbatov is in aspect a similar player to Cantona and in other ways similar to another Ferguson centre forward, Teddy Sherringham. Tall and cerebral, with a fine touch and a flair for the game. It looked for a time as if Berbatov could be the new Cantona but subtle differences soon emerged.

Berbatov does not possess the same anger or pride that drove Cantona, the same sternness of self belief. He is not the grand conductor of the orchestra that Cantona was, instead he is more the temperamental flutist. Ferguson eventually recognised that.

In the selection for the 2009 final Sir Alex had decisions to make, Berbatov hadn’t evolved into what he had hoped so he dipped into his great wealth of attacking talent and came up with a different proposition; Cristiano Ronaldo.

Ronaldo is a wonderful player, a once in a lifetime player; fast, a great dribbler, a master of the step-over, a goal-scorer. Blessed with a fine physique he is also (for a flair player) surprisingly good in the air.

What’s more, he had played the central position before, and with aplomb. Ferguson knew he could rely on Ronaldo, but playing Ronaldo there could produce other problems; Wayne Rooney.

Wayne Rooney is, and has the potential to be, the British player of a generation. Naturally loaded with more tools in his armoury than Paul Gascoigne, Rooney is powerful, strong, and creative; he is a natural goal-scorer.

Who could forget his startling introduction to the national team in the European Championship in Portugal? Who could deny the suggestion that England would have won that tournament if he hadn’t been injured?

But Rooney has been injured, injuries, in the main part, that he’s overcome, but in that period he has seen Ronaldo, by his individuality, by his brilliance, surpass him as the dominant creative force in the United team.

Rooney is a better team player than Ronaldo, less individual, a natural inside-forward, great at bringing other players into the game. However, on occasion his touch deserts him, his temper betrays him, and Ferguson didn’t fancy him for the central role. He preferred the taller Ronaldo and Rooney was forced out wide. Tevez confined to the bench.

Played in a sweltering hot Olympic Stadium in Rome, the first 10 minutes of the 2009 final were a vindication of Ferguson’s selection; Ronaldo was virtually unstoppable. He rained in shots on the Barcelona goal; it seemed only a matter of time till one went in, then Barcelona scored and Ferguson’s selection unravelled.

In many ways it was bad luck, football is a game of luck, events turn on small moments. If Edwin Van de Saar had got a stronger hand to Samuel Etoo’s toe poke, if Ji-Sung Park’s follow up was a nanosecond quicker, if one of Ronaldo’s efforts had gone in.

One wonder’s, as the game went on, as it slipped away, if Ferguson’s thought didn’t turn to his ideal target man then. To Cantona, sitting further west along the Mediterranean coastline in the seasonal film-festival capital of France, in Cannes. Life would be a lot simpler with Cantona.

There would be no decision then about who played in the central forward role, Ferguson could rely on his general, the rest of the team would fall into place, the balance would be right. Ferguson could trust Cantona, because in an unspoken way, Cantona is Alex Ferguson’s spiritual son.

Not the biological son carved out in near direct image, but the son of Ferguson’s soul.

Cantona played football in the way you imagine Ferguson would wished to have played himself if you could only take away the slights, the hard upbringing of his youth, the grimness of a childhood spent in the Glasgow slums of Govan.

And Cantona symbolises what Ferguson’s United stand for—the skill, the creativity, the passion, combined with a bloody-mindedness to stand up for what you believe is your right, your due; no matter the concerns of others. The Romans had a word for it; Dignitas; your own personal sense of worth in the world.

Both Cantona and Ferguson possess this near-mystical quality in abundance. In Cantona it is apparent, the football career, the highs and lows; the acting career, the divergence into beach football, all embarked upon in a seemingly effortless tapestry of a man concerned with leaving his own indomitable mark on the world.

With Ferguson this air is more confined, dwelling within the auspices of Manchester United Football Club, and more complicated. Ferguson has to keep the board happy, the media pacified (sometimes), the players motivated, but underlying all this is the same steadfastness of will, of vision.

One imagines what Cantona made of the unravelling of United on that hot Rome night. Sitting there, next to film director Ken Loach with his Martini cocktail (shaken and stirred), in a lounge of a boutique hotel in Cannes.

Did they discuss the game or was it solely film ideas? Did working-class chronicler Loach tell Cantona he’d make a brilliant Sub-Commandante Marcos in a project he had on the Mexican Zapatista movement, or was it Cantona, on the marginalisation of Wayne Rooney out on the wing.

And when Ferguson made his postmatch comment about United coming back better next year and you wondered who he was thinking of bringing in, whether it was new midfielders, or possibly a new target man. Did Ken Loach then turn smiling to Cantona and say.

“It’s not only Manchester postmen who are looking for you Eric.”

While Eric smiled to himself, took a sip of his cocktail and nodded sagely.

Viva Messi, Viva Xavi, Viva Iniesta; Viva Barca

Duncan MacDowall — Thu, 28 May 2009 05:20:22 -0400

The secondary billing to the UEFA Champions League Cup final in the Olympic Stadium in Rome was the contest between Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo to decide who was this year’s best player in the world, and for the first ten minutes there was only one victor, Cristiano Ronaldo.

Man United started the match on fire, dominating possession they reined in shots on the Barcelona goal. Ronaldo shooting at will went close on three occasions. Valdes fumbled a Giggs free kick and the onrushing Ji-Sung Park narrowly failed to slide the ball in. It was a Manchester United free for all.

In the tenth minute the game changed with Barcelona’s first attack. The ball was played down the right side of the field, Samuel Eto'o cut inside Nemanja Vidic and toe-poked the ball past Edwin Van Der Sar at the near post. One attack, 1-0 to Barcelona.

The game changed completely. Barcelona began to exhibit the orchestral possession football we have become accustomed to seeing them produce. The two premier conductors Iniesta and Xavi in the centre of midfield.

Their style of play really is amazing and is something quite different from any other team in world football, except perhaps the Spanish national team.

Combining with Messi, who drops back from a more advanced position, the three diminutive players seek out the centrally congested areas of the field and with one touch football, perfect control and awareness, dominate them.

Combine this with their incredible sharpness and it renders all three of them practically untouchable. It is no slur on Messi, who is renowned for his amazingly quick feet and dribbling, to say that it is impossible at times to tell him, Iniesta and Xavi apart.

The first half ended without any more incident, Barcelona going in 1-0 up and the hordes of Manchester United fans wondering if a stirring half-time speech from Alex Ferguson would restore the dominance United displayed at the onset of the game.

This didn’t seem an unreasonable hope. There are weaknesses to be exploited in this Barcelona team. Defensively they have been decimated by injuries. Eric Abidal out and Rafa Marquez missing from the centre of defence. The wonderful Brazilian right back Dani Alves suspended and the ageing warrior Carles Puyol playing out of position in his place.

Three years ago Puyol was completely exposed for pace by Thierry Henry, his teammate, who was then playing for Arsenal. It wasn’t unreasonable to expect Cristiano Ronaldo to do the same.

Wayne Rooney is capable of moments of brilliance, up till half-time he had been looking lost, playing out wide, his usually immaculate first-touch often letting him down. It would only take one spark to bring United back into the game.

And on the bench sat Carlos Tevez, the pit-bull, under-sized and under-used this season, would it be his turn to come on and make a difference. What could United do? What could Sir Alex conjure up?

United came out early for the second half. Ferguson had made his move, Tevez was on replacing Anderson. The stage was set for a United revival. They kicked off and almost immediately Barcelona dominated.

Henry, who looked injured and who alone, took no part in the up the park harrying style of aggressive defending that Barcelona operate, sublimely dummied and cut back inside the sprawling Ferdinand just failing to beat Van De Saar in a one on one from close range.

Minutes later Iniesta was brought down directly in front of the penalty area. Xavi took the resulting free-kick curling the ball right-footed past Van Der Sar only to see it come back off the post.

It was almost an exact parallel to the start of the first half, this time with Barcelona in the acsendency. You wondered if it was now United’s turn to produce something out of the blue to turn the game again.

It wasn’t. Ferguson tapped into the attacking talent on his bench and brought on Berbatov for Park on 66 minutes. Four minutes later, Messi scored Barcelona’s second.

A cross from Xavi on the right and Messi, finding space between United’s central defenders, rose and hung in the air before placing a textbook header to the left of a static Van De Saar.

The game was effectively over. United persevered but without inspiration. Scholes came on for Carrick and was promptly yellow-carded. Ronaldo became irritated with an inspired, but increasingly theatrical Puyol, and joined him.

For United the final whistle signified a somewhat muted end to what has been an otherwise successful season. There were no tears, no drama and Sir Alex Ferguson, who was magnanimous in defeat, stated the apparent and declared Barcelona the better side.

For Barcelona it has been a triumphant end to a season of magical football. They rode their luck at Chelsea but remained true to the attacking football pioneered by their rookie coach Pepe Guardiola.

For more than anything they have been a celebration, a joy to watch. A fabulous forward line, and at the heart of their philosophy, three little men, who have almost re-defined the fine arts of central midfield play.

Viva Messi, Viva Xavi, Viva Iniesta.

Viva Barca.

A Football Story From Back In The Day-Carlos

Duncan MacDowall — Sun, 03 May 2009 20:16:39 -0400

In the early 1980s, when black footballers were just coming through in the game, Carlos was one of two black players at Birmingham City. Both of them were forwards, but Carlos was a winger.

He was a young professional, a second-year player at the club, 18 or 19 years old and living in the ‘digs’ provided by the club for players living away from home.

Carlos earned about 90 quid a week. Out of that he paid his landlady 30 for board and lodging, used some for travel and food, and was left with about 30 to spend on himself.

With his spare money he bought mainly clothes and records. He liked Soul music and his particular favourite was Michael Jackson, who he admired for his performance skills and star quality.

Star quality was a term Carlos used a lot, and at night, in his dreams, he applied it to himself. He visualized himself as a top professional, a skillful ball-playing winger with star quality.

Carlos dedicated himself to making his dream a reality. Anything the coaches asked him to do, he did. He was never late for training, and after it had finished he stayed on into the afternoon and worked on his ball skills; his first touch; his crosses.

He was a polite, mild-mannered kind of guy. And in a culture where Saturday's standard post-match activity involved a tour of the city centre nightclubs, he never had more than a shandy.

Carlos was usually one of the first in at the training ground in the morning. He'd sit in one of the dressing rooms polishing his boots over and over again, making sure his training kit was immaculate.

The first team players would come in later. Established stars of the game like Frank Worthington, Colin Todd and Archie Gemmill. Carlos would shout out to them. “Morning Archie, morning Frank, morning Colin.”

“Good morning Carlos,” they’d say, as they made their way to the first team dressing room. Carlos smiled after them, waiting patiently for the day he joined them.

Before long the training ground would be full. From apprentices, through the young professionals, to the first team players.

One of the last ones in was a rising young star, athletic, handsome and a quality player but with a bad-boy image. Moody in the mornings, he'd talk under his breath, swearing to himself.

Carlos greeted him, the same as he did everyone. And most mornings got the same reply. “Morning, nigger.”

Carlos laughed it off as a joke. “Hey, there’s no need for that,” he'd say, smiling.

The player walked on.

At first we talked about it, a group of us, Carlos’s inner circle. We all agreed the player didn’t mean anything by it, it was just his style. That’s how they talked in some parts of the country, we'd agree. It didn’t seem to bother Carlos anyway. He shrugged it off.

We left it at that though when Carlos wasn’t there, the other black player at the club, a local Birmingham boy, gave his real thoughts on the matter.

“Do you think he would say that to big Noel up at the Villa?”

We asked him what he meant.

“Look,” he said. “Carlos is a nice guy, he wouldn’t say boo to a goose, it’s easy to pick on someone like that. If he said that to big Noel, he’d get a different response.”

“Like what?” we asked.

“He’d knock him spark out, in a fucking second.”

We laughed but we knew it was true. Noel Blake was the young black centre-back at Aston Villa, built like a heavyweight boxer and truly fearsome. He’d shout “Noel’s ball!” and everyone would run for cover, as he headed it back 50 yards up the field.

Anyway, there’s nothing we could have done about it. The City player was respected, admired. It was just one of those things that happened in football.

We got on with the season but there was a group of younger players who (realising that their own personalities didn’t seem to be working for them) adopted the mannerisms of older, more successful players.

It wasn’t too long before they started to address Carlos as 'nigger,' as if it was a rite for success in the game.

This time the result was different. It was one thing taking that kind of talk from a rising star, but from someone younger than you? A minor fight broke out in the shower, blows were exchanged. The incident was stopped and again the season went on.

Time passed. Players came and went, got injured, had good games, bad ones, and had their performances judged. The usual trials and tribulations of a football club and of young players trying to make it in the professional game. I left the club soon after.

A couple of years later I went back to Birmingham and popped by to see my old landlady, have a catch-up on old times. I asked about my old group of friends, about Carlos.

“It was terrible,” she told me. “The club let him go and it overturned his mind, he couldn’t cope with it.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Well you remember how he liked Michael Jackson? He used his severance pay to buy a leather suit like the one Michael Jackson wore in the "Thriller" video. He’d turn up at the training ground, in his suit, still thinking he was playing there.

"They ended up having to get security in to remove him. They dragged him away, him shouting out all the while "I’m Carlos, I’m a superstar, I’ve got star quality."

It’s coming up to thirty years since all this happened and I still think about it now. I ask myself - wasn’t it hard enough trying to make it in the game?

And I wonder how maybe the prevailing culture and the daily humiliation, whilst brushed-off to save face, wounded Carlos somewhere deep inside. Were they the final straws that sent him over the edge?

Football. It’s called the beautiful game, but it can also be a cruel one.

In Homage to Bald Footballers

Duncan MacDowall — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 07:07:49 -0400

Yesterday, to mark the occasion of his sixteenth birthday, I took my six foot six inch son shopping in London’s Oxford Street. Whilst doing so I came across a rather disturbing phenomenon. Though I was holding the cash and doing most of the talking, the female shop assistants spent all their time ogling my son. After about the tenth time of this happening I made the mistake of mentioning it to him and he, while simultaneously looking down on me from his great height said. ‘Well, you are getting a bit thin on top there, dad.’ That night I went home and under a bright light examined my hairline in the mirror from various angles. After confirming his prognosis I briefly wept, then sadly spent the majority of the evening on-line, researching hair replacement options. The results were surprisingly encouraging. I discovered that for between three to six thousand pounds and a minor operation under local anesthetic I could replace the hair at the crown of my head with transplanted doner hair from a region just above the collar-line. So in theory, I could regain the thick locks that I once had in my youth. With hope restored I got down to the real task I had set myself for the night, to write a football based article. As the clock was now ticking I considered it a more judicious use of my time to combine my earlier research with my current project so I came up with this hypothesis. Taking into consideration the technological advancements in hair replacement and combining them with the huge wages that modern day footballers now earn, it would be a simple process for them to restore any hair loss issues they might have and consequently, the golden age of the iconic genetically bald footballer might be over for ever. In light of that shocking thought I proceeded to comprise a list of some of the most memorable baldies to grace both the English and the World game.

Begin Slideshow

The English Football Hooligan Is Alive And Doing Very Well, Thank You

Duncan MacDowall — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 07:09:23 -0400

It is commonly accepted that the English are the founders of the modern game of association football or soccer.

In 1863 in a London tavern, representatives met and formulated the rules and regulations governing the game and the Football Association was formed.

The next forty years saw the organised game spread round the globe, associations were formed in numerous countries, some would later become pre-eminent, others would not.

In 1930 the first World Cup took place in Uruguay, for various reasons only thirteen nations competed. The hosts won and the World Cup was born.

England did not win a World Cup until 1966, a year etched in every Englishman’s memory when the final was played at Wembley stadium in London.

By the late 1960s a new phenomenon had entered the English game, the rise of violence in football stadiums around the country. It wasn’t entirely new, there had been sporadic disturbances at football matches for forty years in England and around the world, notably in South America, but the scale was different.

Fuelled by the skinhead youth cult and based upon tribalistic, working class areas of the country, violence regularly flared up in grounds around the nation. The common desire being to take over the standing end of the ground usually associated with the home support.

The years passed, street fashions changed, hooliganism or football violence increased. Terms like “aggro” and “bovver boy” were joined in the national consciousness by the “Stanley knife,” a sharp tradesman’s blade now used for cutting rival supporters.

The original skinheads were long gone. By the start of the 1980s a new image for the football hooligan had appeared. The football casual was born; he wore designer labels like Burberry, Pringle and Lacoste, jeans and training shoes.

No longer did the cropped hair or the laced up Dr Martins boot mark out the troublemaker, now he was harder to spot.

By the mid 1980s football was in crisis, a British football match was a dangerous place for a fan to go but things had got worse. The football hooligan was now regularly travelling abroad and taking his violence with him.

In 1985 at the Heysel Stadium in Brussels, hosting the showpiece of European Club football, The European Cup Final. Liverpool fans charged at Italian supporters of Juventus of Turin who whilst trying to escape were crushed to death as a wall in the stadium collapsed. Thirty nine died and English clubs were banned from European football indefinitely.

The ban lasted for five years but the violence continued at home and with the followers of the national team, in Europe.

Far-right groups had been involved for some time, the British National Party openly canvassed at football grounds and black players had been routinely abused for years, but the game was changing.

Black players were becoming more prominent, the kick racism out of football campaign was initiated. Stadiums were designated all-seated. Policing tactics improved, banning orders, CCTV. The football hooligan firms reorganised. The violence continued, more often than not, took place outside.

Big money came into the game, oligarchs and international cartels took over clubs, satellite TV poured money into the top-flight game for rights, ticket prices went sky-high. Football became big business. The game became a global marketing phenomenon, and so did the English hooligan.

World football fans mimicked the English, copied their behaviour, their tactics, their clothing. Rioted and fought across the European Union, in Eastern Europe, in Argentina and Brazil.

The English hooligan firms and crews could now be challenged; supporters were stabbed in Italy, murdered in Turkey, ambushed in Holland, the national team players racially abused in Spain. The hooligans responded, both with violence and with something new; with celebrity.

The last few years have seen an amazing rise in films and books telling the tales of the football hooligans from their own perspective. There are over fifty books currently in print. Among the thugs, Barmy Army, Want Some Aggro, Bovver, Who wants it? being just a few of them.

While the ‘Soul Crew,’ ‘Naughty Forty,’ ‘County Road Cutters,’ ’Zulus,’ and ‘Headhunters,’ are some of the more exotic names of the firms.

Four recent films have explored the genre; The Football Factory, Green Street, The Rise of the Foot Soldier and Cas.

The Football Factory had two spin-off documentary series aired on Bravo as its star Danny Dyer, visited and interviewed real hooligans around the UK and then, in the Real Football Factory International, around the world.

In a move designed to attract the US market, Lord of the Rings lead Elijah Wood starred in Green Street. He played an American football violence convert, deftly switching from fighting the Dark Lord’s forces in Mordor, to doing the same in South East London against the Bushwacker’s of Millwall.

Cas Pennant former West Ham ICF member and subject of his own book and film has set up his own publishing company dealing prominently in the genre, supplying the seemingly insurmountable demand for all things in relation to the British hooligan.

With the steady demise of the top-flite English footballer, only eight out of forty four starting players in the top four clubs in European football this week were English, it remains to be seen if posterity will view England as the country who gave the world football or whether it will be better known as the country that gave the world the football hooligan.

A sad legacy in a changing world.

The Misconception About Mixed Martial Arts

Duncan MacDowall — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 22:42:51 -0400

With the announcement that Lyoto Machida is to face Rashad Evans at UFC 98 for the light-heavyweight title, I think it is time to address some of the mythology surrounding the sport of MMA, and Lyoto Machida in particular.

It is popularly and continually stated in blogs and articles that Machida isn’t a big box-office draw because of the elusive nature of his fighting style, a style rooted in point-scoring Shotokan karate, where he aims not to be hit and responds only in a counter-striking fashion.

The opinion stems from the perspective that the MMA fight fan wants to see grand all-action toe-to-toe brawling, reminiscent of the golden years of boxing but with the added sideshow of going to the ground and grappling.

The reality, I believe, is different.

The attraction of mixed martial arts lies in the almost mystical image of contrast of styles. Take the old Kung-Fu films for example, the usual format was for a Kung Fu school to be overrun and defeated only for one of the beaten practitioners to go off and find an old master who taught him a new style, whereupon he returned and triumphed over seemingly insurmountable odds.

Snake in the Eagle's Shadow; Bruce Lee; The Way of the Dragon; The Shaolin Temple; the temple was the ultimate symbol of mystical martial arts.

Now I appreciate that the UFC hasn’t had many Shaolin monks coming over and kicking ass but in some ways the Brazilian MMA fighters are the spiritual heirs of Shaolin.

The legend of the Gracie family, how the descendants of a Scottish immigrant to Brazil were taught Ju-Jitsu by a Japanese master and then modified it to such devastating effect that it became a world-wide phenomenon.

And Lyoto Machida himself, with his Japanese Karate master father and his study of Sumo wrestling. How exciting, how mystical, how romantic is that?

In Machida’s last fight against rough-house, throat-cutting, Brazilian bad-boy Thiago Silva he said in the build up that Silva had made a mistake and hadn’t met a tough guy like him before.

His words remain etched in my memory, I thought at the time that here is a star in the making. His performance backed it up. Devastating. I’m thrilled that the UFC has given him his title shot.

Of course, it could all go wrong against the big-hitting Rashad Evans, but that’s the beauty, the romance, of mixed martial arts, the contrast in styles.