Why pace and athleticism are overrated
THE RECENT Americisation of David Beckham has got me thinking about whether I didn’t give my own sporting career enough of a chance. Commentators, who revel in attacking what both the Mirror and the Sun called ‘Posh and Bucks’ (don’t you love it when tabloids match each other for stupidity and bad punning), have criticised the former darling of English football, and our best performer in the World Cup, for losing a yard or two of pace.
Yet of all the players at a late stage in their careers, this seems a strange accusation to throw at poor ol’ Goldenballs since he was never actually that fast anyway – you would certainly not have labelled him as a consummate athlete.
In a similar way (don’t scoff, there’s plenty of similarities between me and the only English player to have scored in three World Cups) I am not blessed with the most athletic countenance, mentally or physically. Yet I feel both Becks and I fall into the role of ‘The Thinker’.
As a Tottenham fan, the role of ‘The Thinker’ has had a great tradition playing in the lily-white over the years. Glenn Hoddle epitomised the ‘attacking stylishly yet not being bothered to track back’ attitude that us Spurs fans love to claim as our trademark, and Teddy Sheringham is another whose unwillingness to sprint hasn’t prevented him from still turning out for West Ham in his post-40s.
More recently Michael Carrick has also epitomised this I-can’t-be-arsed style yet still cost United a cool £18 million, and ‘The Thinker’ role at White Hart Lane is now being filled by the 6’3 giant that is Tom Huddlestone.
So on the rare occasions that I do get out on the football pitch, I play with these so-called athletes in mind. I dictate the play. I spray passes from right to left. I break up opposing attacks, not by tracking back and making violent yet committed lunges but by simply being in the right place at the right time. This is all thanks to a footballing mind cultivated by Andy Gray’s magic pen and a shit-load of Pro Evolution Soccer.
Of course what actually happens is that I stand stranded in the centre of the park, whilst being slowly strangled by a football shirt several sizes too small (long-sleeved with gloves, natch). I normally start well, making a couple of tidy passes, before making the rash decision of getting caught in the heady excitement of a counter attack.
As I foolishly attempt a spring in the faint hope of arriving in time to score a rocket from the edge of the area, I forget the repercussions. As the game restarts I realise my fitness restrictions have left me out of the game. One run and all dignity is lost, and I find myself operating in a deep sweeper role (just in front of the keeper) or getting subbed off.
However I have come up with a tactical masterstroke, and it might just be a winner. The likes of Carrick and Beckham have tried this, but I reckon I could really perfect the tactic of playing in, and only in, the centre circle. Sure, my influence on the game might not be total, but as long as the opposition players are willing to let the ball come to me and give me time to whip out another pinpoint pass then I could be the talk of the town. This has the added bonus of not needing to have a shower already.
However Beckham might have already taken advantage of this idea already. Nowhere will he be allowed more space and time on the ball than in the MLS, and now he’ll have no need for a post-game wash before carrying his wife’s bags back from Hollywood Boulevard.
