Come have a cold beer. Let’s off to the match and brave winter’s shuddering terraced stands to shout and howl with disappointment as only a true Manchester City fan can.
The new era has come and the sweet strains of the Roberto Mancini promise gave hope to leave big brother, Manchester United, next door displaced, and cause Sir Alex to seriously consider retirement.
Oh! Such dull boring stuff from the best in Manchester no less, and not a confident smiling clown among them to show how the game should be played as an entertainment spectacle.
Even without the capture of six points in the last two home games Roberto hums away, claiming his time will come in the gladiatorial blood and thunder of the falsely claimed best league in the world.
Big men with serious reputations being paid remarkable money too often lie prone or on their rear ends and serve up scraps of stunted skill not yet acclimatized to a brand of football that has neither the grace nor concern for one another’s safety and careers, with leg breaking tackles accepted as the norm.
And match officials “dare” wave yellow and red with managers incessantly carping head home to bed. No glad sporting smiles to be seen, no fun to relish, nor pride it seems in the ability to offer the fans real entertainment—goals only goals appear to satisfy the craving for the quick fix.
Gentlemen! In times gone past, seats would have been an obstruction at a football match, a thrill a minute kept the fans on their feet and laughter at the antics of the game’s gifted clowns kept the blues away.
Now generally the only time the fans arise from their posteriors is when a goal is scored or when one of their favorites goes down with a career threatening tackle.
What happens in the interim between goals is okay if you are a fan of the not so svelte, who occasionally might chip the ball over the keeper to the amazement of the traumatized fans accustomed to the fast and loose. Holding and having a good feast of the ball has been replaced with a quick anxious snack, and the beautiful game has been replaced with the rough-and-ready.
Watching youngsters in the junior leagues stiffened and terrified by loony fathers, and, sad to say, mothers raving on the touch lines throughout the playing fields of England, “Get rid, get rid!” meaning of course “Don’t hold the ball,” is symptomatic of their big brothers in the gladiatorial arenas of the Premiership.
This is what may be regarded as the cruelest absence of care, brutalizing the innocent and preventing them from realizing the thrill and fun of discovery in developing their ball playing skills unimpeded.
Alas! To generate that finesse and sense of fun in the hectic pace of the English game might be compared to the filling of a bucket that’s been holed.
The new era has come and the sweet strains of the Roberto Mancini promise gave hope to leave big brother, Manchester United, next door displaced, and cause Sir Alex to seriously consider retirement.
Oh! Such dull boring stuff from the best in Manchester no less, and not a confident smiling clown among them to show how the game should be played as an entertainment spectacle.
Even without the capture of six points in the last two home games Roberto hums away, claiming his time will come in the gladiatorial blood and thunder of the falsely claimed best league in the world.
Big men with serious reputations being paid remarkable money too often lie prone or on their rear ends and serve up scraps of stunted skill not yet acclimatized to a brand of football that has neither the grace nor concern for one another’s safety and careers, with leg breaking tackles accepted as the norm.
And match officials “dare” wave yellow and red with managers incessantly carping head home to bed. No glad sporting smiles to be seen, no fun to relish, nor pride it seems in the ability to offer the fans real entertainment—goals only goals appear to satisfy the craving for the quick fix.
Lost Era
To appreciate and have an affectionate regard for artistry and skill coupled with buffoonery seems to have been replaced with the vulgar by the fast tracking money-minded, who talk about putting bums on seats, and moving with the expediency of the financial times in order to survive the poverty of the dreaded lower divisions.Gentlemen! In times gone past, seats would have been an obstruction at a football match, a thrill a minute kept the fans on their feet and laughter at the antics of the game’s gifted clowns kept the blues away.
Now generally the only time the fans arise from their posteriors is when a goal is scored or when one of their favorites goes down with a career threatening tackle.
What happens in the interim between goals is okay if you are a fan of the not so svelte, who occasionally might chip the ball over the keeper to the amazement of the traumatized fans accustomed to the fast and loose. Holding and having a good feast of the ball has been replaced with a quick anxious snack, and the beautiful game has been replaced with the rough-and-ready.
Watching youngsters in the junior leagues stiffened and terrified by loony fathers, and, sad to say, mothers raving on the touch lines throughout the playing fields of England, “Get rid, get rid!” meaning of course “Don’t hold the ball,” is symptomatic of their big brothers in the gladiatorial arenas of the Premiership.
This is what may be regarded as the cruelest absence of care, brutalizing the innocent and preventing them from realizing the thrill and fun of discovery in developing their ball playing skills unimpeded.
Alas! To generate that finesse and sense of fun in the hectic pace of the English game might be compared to the filling of a bucket that’s been holed.
