All fish and chips with mushy peas, nothing to match fine French cuisine.
How come the fresh young French appeared out of the blue in such limited time offering so much promise after the World Cup wrangling among those seniors who lost their heads?
It was so evident that the first French touch of the ball was an invitation to enjoy sparkling attacking, fast, grass-cutting passing, and fear-be-damned nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Karim Benzema, presently struggling for regular first team football at Real Madrid, finished the movement from the gifted Florent Malouda, seemingly oblivious of the limitations of space, to split open the England defense for the first goal. A long weary sigh of regret deflated the expectancy of the English fans as they realized that there was going to be no show of hope for a Capello-inspired hint of revival.
They were left with only a sneaking admiration for the exciting French way of offering a fleeting glimpse of their presence before disappearing into space, leaving their opponents with the grass growing under their feet. England, back in the old dugout, fired cannons—spiritless exponents of the school-boy long ball—from the defensive wall, because of the ground swell of bristling talent, and the constant threat of a French breakthrough.
Hoping to gain some credit against the run of play with a big tall guy (Peter Crouch) throwing himself about trying to upset the French cool and stem the flow of “easy as you go” were the English. When Mathieu Valbuena netted from Bacary Sagna’s cross just after the break, the fans knew that their only option to salvage some semblance of pride was to return to their local Premiership clubs (where it is difficult to find an English name on the team sheet.)
The Premiership’s excessive appetite and neglect is in great part responsible for the lack of progress in the period following the disastrous World Cup for England. If you don’t use it you lose it, and that is precisely what has been happening to the flow of young talent refused the proper facilities and opportunity to gain access to the mainstream of English football.
Harry Redknapp, now Tottenham manager, once claimed that he was having difficulty communicating with some of his players because of language problems, and some claim Fabio Capello and his razor sharp back-up team encounter the same gaps in understanding.
But then money talks all languages and it is cash flow that keeps the youngsters in exile. The English game is swamped with overseas players among which the French have a substantial presence, totaling 40 or more—yet no English players of note are involved in the French Ligue 1.
This of course further reveals the gap in standards, and the almost hopeless task Fabio Capello faces with the glaring limitations of those in his charge at present, and with no promise that the immediate future will relieve the barren dearth of young talent. The Gerrards, the Barrys, the Ferdinands, seasoned professionals that the English press endow with some respect, constantly fail to justify their reputations at international level.
At club level they enjoy the support of overseas talent that enhance their performance, but when out of their comfort zone it’s generally “show me the way to go home.”
