Pointless Thoughts From My Feathery Brain-Quill.

09.10.10



It's a shame about Hatem Ben Arfa, the Newcastle player who had his leg broken the other day. He's one of those footballers you know mainly from computer games, who hold a space in your imagination as a result of some glorious, title-winning deeds they performed on Champ Manager. But at the beginning of the season there he was, all real and fleshy, twatting the ball into the net from 25 yards on his debut. He's got skill, which makes it even more of a surprise that he signed for Newcastle. But anyway, they beat Everton 1-0 and fantasy football managers up and down the country signed the crafty Frenchman.

Fast forward a month and it's all gone tits up. Ben Arfa became the latest Premier League footballer to have his leg broken, by a 'full-blooded' tackle from Nigel de Jong. Here's a clip. And here's another one, where he broke the leg of USA and Bolton's Stuart Holden in March this year. Neither look particularly violent, and certainly don't look as vicious as the flying kick to the ribs he dished out to Xabi Alonso, in the world cup final. The referee didn't even give a free kick for the Ben Arfa tackle. I can see why, because Nigel did win the ball, with one leg at least. It's just that the other smashed into the Newcastle player's left leg below the knee, and broke it in two places. In both incidences the tackles are completely reckless, idiotic even, but not malicious.

The speed and intensity of the Premier League is, we're told, far above that of any other in Europe. Opta stats show that players run further and faster, and play in a style far more physical than their limp-wristed, olive-munching continental counterparts. Teenagers are pitted against gnarled veterans in a game whose sense of mutual responsibility seems to have diminished, and they usually come off worst. The point is, when two players' legs collide at a flat-out sprint, one of them is likely to break. Bone is stronger than steel, but only from certain angles. And the key to avoiding these grim fractures is to know the difference between a tackle and a lunge, and for the latter to be properly punished. If a player hurls himself into a tackle with no control over his own body, taking away his ability to pull out or divert the force away from his opponent's leg, he should be sent off.

Already in 2010, Aaron Ramsey, Cesc Fabregas, Bobby Zamora, Antonio Valencia, Wolves' Adlene Guedioura and Bolton's Holden have all suffered leg breaks in one form or another, and I'm sure it never used to be this frequent. Growing up watching football in the nineties there were several high profile ones like Dave Busst, Henrik Larsson, and Luc Nilis. Were there lots of other leg fractures in the early days of the Premier League? Perhaps there were, but the lack of cameras and coverage meant they're now forgotten a decade later. The three I mentioned, though, can still be found in 2 seconds of youtube searching. The Ben Arfa incident happened in the 4th minute of the game; before half time a video ripped from Sky Sports had already appeared on the internet.

A broken leg used to seem like much more of a big deal than it does now. Now, players are put on stretchers, given oxygen, and not seen again for six months. Then, repaired by the wizardry of orthopaedic surgeons, they're chucked once again into the fray, a little bit more circumspect.

It could just be rose-tinted spectacles, and this kind of thing could always have gone on. I've been trying to find some statistics on the incidence of these gory incidents, but have so far come up short. Maybe when someone collects the evidence, the game's decision makers will spot a worrying pattern and will be moved to make a few changes. Until then, with a lunge and a snap more players will have their careers put back half a year, and anyone not built like a tank will be hounded off the pitch, sent crashing into advertising boards and back onto operating tables.  

Sunday 26.09.10

Ahhhhhhh Sunday, good old Sunday. Sunday doesn't let you down, except when you have to work the next day. You get that tight feeling in your chest whenever the responsibility of employment crushes down on you. But, woop! I don't have any of that at the moment, so my Sundays are fairly relaxed affairs at the moment.

I spent the day sticking it to The Man by illegally streaming lots of juicy sport. Hahaa! Take that you fuckers! Thanks to the internet, you can find live video of all the sport that's going on. Mostly, though, it's football, and football's what I was after. Stoke City, The Potters, that lot, were playing Newcastle United.

I've always loved football, despite always being completely shit at it. In possession of a powerful right foot and quite remarkable bulk, I had a short and fairly fruitless football career, peaking between the ages of 7 and 10. After that I rather went to seed. I had no natural ability, the touch of a corpse, and no competitive instinct whatsoever. I once scored 4 goals for the B Team, and that was about it. But I didn't mind, it wasn't the end of the world. There were stickers to collect and stupid plastic figures with gigantic heads to collect. It's weird, the aura that surrounds all the tiny sporting children, how they seemed somehow special and glamorous. They had Adidas Predator boots and Kickers shoes, and the could do a bloody Cruyff turn. I wasn't very good, and soon lost interest. But Stoke were playing, and I'm still bothered how they do, so why not.

There's a couple of good websites that host streams of sports matches, and I tottered off to them looking shifty and wearing a cloak, trying not to draw attention to myself in case the feds were watching. The mighty Potters trounced those thieving Magpies 2-1.

This felt good. A worrying proportion of my friends are from the North East.