Fatcats Need Love, Too – Junkets: A Fresh Perspective

 

Yet Another Oppressed Club President

“Die Geschichte aller bisherigen Gesellschaft ist die Geschichte von Klassenkämpfen.”

– Karl M.

A spectre is haunting football – the spectre of foolish administration. All the powers of old Europe have entered into an unholy alliance to exorcise this spectre: shameless football ‘fans’ and ‘citizens’ dedicated to ‘exposing’ the supposed ‘malpractice’ of their benevolent benefactors and much maligned manashers, French Radicals and German police-spies, Pope and Tsar. For far too long now, these scurrilous scribes have painted themselves in their immoral frames as the upholders of justice and, such is their arrogance, even as a beacon of truth, despite the fact that their cowardly pronouncements, which emanate from stuffy, badly lit rooms where they sit hunched over their only portal to the real world, their pathetic, life-sapping laptops, where they type with trembling, tobacco-stained fingers, are about as insightful and relevant as an afternoon with Louise Redknapp. It is high time that football administrators should openly, in the face of the whole world, publish their views, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery tale of the Spectre of Foolish Admin with a strongly worded, nay passionate, press release.

Fatcat looks on as immoral journalist enters from parallel dimension

And so the AFA have complied. Today on their website they have published a fascinating piece entitled “A well earned trip” in defence of the plans for club presidents and other officials travelling to South Africa. It begins in a Cartesian vein, asking ‘What is the AFA?’ “It is nothing other than some 4,000 clubs, 208 leagues, several thousand players, and thousands more kids who dream about playing football. [….] Statement the first: the AFA is its clubs. First deduction: the clubs are its directors. First conclusion: the work the directors do, their effort, their dedication, their undeniable passion, makes it possible for millions of people to enjoy their institutions, whether that be through sport, or social or cultural events.

“Nevertheless, these men, who devote such a large part of their lives and their families’ lives to football, often feel unjustly impeached for merely wanting to, once every four years, enjoy the privilege of attending the greatest party the football universe has to offer: the World Cup.

The scurrying, scurrilous media at work

“What happens is that certain sections of the media make them feel that this is a gratuity rather than a right. Yet, if they attend [the World Cup], they will be taking their due; they will do so on the basis of their own decision to follow a course of action to which they are perfectly entitled. No-one is invited. No-one decides who goes and who doesn’t. Simply, as in all large-scale deployments, there is one body which organises and co-ordinates a matter as complex as the arrangements for travelling, hotels, eating, etc. Thereafter, each one of these men who has worked 1,460 days in their respective clubs may, if he so desires, enjoy a month at the World Cup. What’s more, it is only right and fitting that things should be thus.

“Would anyone question the right of a farmer to attend the Ploughing Championships? Are the laboratories wrong when they organise conferences to which travel speakers and listeners from all over the world? Are state dignitaries at fault when they seek to form the strongest team possible for an international summit? And if the director of a football club cannot take advantage of the opportunity to travel to a World Cup, where the greatest stars are on show, the best teams, as well as directors of all the other clubs in the world with whom they may converse, exchange ideas, share moments and experiences, if he cannot attend, how are we to appraise him in his work? Or how are the members of his club to judge him?

“It must be made abundantly clear that in this case there are neither subsidies nor gratuities. La Selección receives money for playing in the World Cup and a tiny fraction of this is reserved for each director to claim in order to travel to the ecumenical engagement that is destined to profit him so. Therefore, this demagogic recourse of treating the journey of a delegation as somehow unethical is utterly without substance. Only those directors who feel it is in their best interests will travel to South Africa, and they will only be taking what is theirs by right.”

We’ve translated the press release in full because we reckon it’s brilliant and doubt if its likes will be seen again. We should explain, however, that it is in response to comments from ‘Big Head’ Ruggeri who was on TV the other day complaining that “the AFA are going to pay the expenses of about 240 people to go to the World Cup. And the only World Champion who’s actually travelling is Daniel Passarella, and just because he’s the President of River Plate.” Fair enough, but Danny’s president of River ’cause he is a legend, has an unimpeachable character and won the elections – what’s Ruggeri been up to besides complaining for the last few years? Pegamequemegusta, you will be glad to learn, however, is not so hard-hearted as the filthy rats in the legitimate press make out, and sympathises when he says: “It’s bloody obscene. We put our bodies on the line to win those World Cups and then there’s all these lads going who’ve never even played football. Why don’t they get the wallet out and throw a bit of cash to the 43 World Champions?”

El Cabezón is not impressed

Poor thing. Ruggeri is obviously as clueless as pegamequemegusta as to how to acquire money. With hope our glorious club directors shall return from the World Cup brimming with wisdom and sucked from the thumbs of sleepy Zuricheans and we can put an end to these infernal misunderstandings between the rich and poor, eh Karl?

Artist's impression of Grondona's hotel room after defeat in Germany 2006

I’ve Been Down So God Damn Long…

Messi is sad when he plays for Argentina. Or at least so proclaims todays Olé:

Messi plays knifey-spoony under the knowing gaze of Charlie Bukowsky

“The same day he scored a hat trick against Valencia and was heralded on the front page of all the newspapers in Spain (and many more around the world), near midnight when the goals were still being shown on every channel in the country, Oscar Ruggeri came out with a line he could have picked from Maradona’s pocket: Messi is sad when he plays for Argentina,” […] and the debate begins again: why in Barcelona, yes, and with Argentina, no? Is it solely a footballing question or is there some psychological impediment that prevents him from delivering in Diego’s team?”

Ay, the soul-searching, the San Andreas-like chip on the pueblo’s collective shoulder, along with the cultural obsession with psychoanalysis, it all makes for a foul soup. The banner reads “Only 87 days to go til the World Cup!” and the chattering classes (hello) are worried about the apparent “lack of happiness with which Messi puts on the Argentine jersey.” The eminent Doctor Jorge Rocco gives his beard a hearty yet anxious stroke today, pronouncing: “He doesn’t seem happy, nor is he made to feel welcome by the fans, nor is he well integrated into the group. It’s as if he weren’t really there.” The good doctor goes on to make a case for the inclusion – why not me? he cries – of a specialist to combat any “mental strife” in the World Cup party.

Those not living here would be rather surprised, I dare say, at the prevalence of the anti-Messi prejudice. Just like the sickening feeling you get when you come into the kitchen and turn off Joe “666” Duffy only to pick up the newspaper to be confronted with the likes of Sarah Carey and Micheál Martin’s two cents on The Incident in the Stade the Jerks, so that you begin to wish you’d never bloody well heard of the damn game, here the consensus of similar amount of the populace is that Messi is to blame for the failings of la Selección.

Earlier I mentioned the chip on the shoulder the Argentines have: they constantly speak of acá y allá, here and there, the ‘First’ World and the ‘Third’. However, it’s more than that. The current malaise started as a mild surprise, with headline puns on Leo/lío, which means a debacle or a fight in castellano, but since then it has become somewhat more sinister, more widespread, bin juice trickling down the wadded chest of society, across the creases of the flabby belly and down its weak legs til it becomes a kneejerk reaction, the kind of comment your aunt or the Brother spout mechanically.

“When I see Messi play, you know, I just don’t feel inspired,” the mother-in-law says to me the other day (thinking she has carte blanche ’cause he’s Argentinian – mistakenly so, Edith). “He doesn’t seem to enjoy himself – unlike the Brazilians.” To be honest I don’t remember too many smiley faces when Ireland were pummeling the bejaysus out of France.

Barca were poor in the first half so Messi didn’t see much of the ball. When he did get it he did his Messi thing, just as he tried to do in many matches with Argentina with his gambetas olímpicas. Isolated, not a part of the group, yes doctor, but when there’s no group what do you expect? In the second half he found space, he could play, and he scored a hat trick so fantastic its likes hadn’t been seen since one David Houdini hired his first rabbit.

Ángel Cappa, for one, un capo who, sadly, finds himself far from the bosom of Argieball these days, won’t accept the Messi-bashing: “Since Messi has been playing for the national team, I don’t think they’ve ever played the same formation twice, there’s no stability, no team, so he ends up lost.” It’s not entirely accurate either, though, as Messi was part of Basile’s squad where he played regularly enough in a front two with Aguero or Tevez, when the latter wasn’t suspended. His best moments have come in settled teams, though, where wingers were sacrificed for fine ball-players in midfield (Román, Cambiasso, Aimar, Maxi, Banega) and was granted a great deal of freedom, such as in the in the Olympics and the Copa América 2007, where he scored this goal:

Cappa goes on to say, however, that the pressure of being Messi weighs on him when the team goes AWOL. “It must be disconcerting. He’d love to play in an Argentine team where he has a role – instead of being the one everyone looks at to save the day.”

Maradona did, you whisper, tears in your eyes at the memories; Messi clearly doesn’t have el Diego’s balls, you say. For what started as a joyous comparison with Maradona has since become a twisted, nostalgic obsession. Now even the farcical manner of qualifying for the World Cup and the  squabbling among the coaching staff are heralded as positive omens: sure this is what happened in ’86! And if these players can’t repeat that it’s because they’re all soft, they’ve forgotten what it means to wear the jersey, how it smells, it’s down to the fabric! If Alfonsín was still alive we could put him back in as President and go back to using Australes again!

Marcos López, from the Periódico de Cataluña, takes this apart when he points out that in Barcelona Guardiola has “indicated to the players that five minutes should never go by without Messi touching the ball as he has to be involved in the game – yet he does not ask Leo to resolve everything. In reality it’s Messi who depends on Barcelona and the structure of the team. The coach has created a world where Messi can be happy.” To give the lie once more to Baldwin/Martin/Streep fiasco, it’s not that bloody complicated! Playing the football might be if you’re not good enough, but from the manager’s point of view… Maradona said it himself last year: “I would have to be an idiot not to play Messi in the same position he plays in with Barcelona!” In fairness he tried it once or twice – but it was always coupled with loony decisions like Gago on the right wing and three mental patients at the back in front of a nervy keeper.

So he abandoned it, abandoned it in favour of the ultra-defensive, counter-attacking strategy he has used now in the last two games. Being cautious often has the advantage that it makes its adepts appear to have more nous than the common fan, who would just love to unleash the attackers, pro-Ev style. Bielsa, for one, gives the lie to this: if a chaotic reign leads to insane team selections and inspires nothing more than discord and nervousness in the players, that is no argument to effectively give up on football, to shun flair for mistrust, in an undoubtedly vain attempt to lose gracefully.

For the key aspect here surely is that despite everything that has happened, whether Cambiasso, Zanetti, Riquelme, Banega, etc. are there or not, whether the wound of the humiliation in La Paz is festering still, Messi or no Messi, Argentina’s World Cup story will probably end up the same this time. They will certainly do better than in Bielsa’s ill-fated campaign in 2002, and given their probable opponents in the second round, they’ll probably match Passarella and Pekerman’s achievements. So whether Messi takes to the field sniffing the fabric with a clown smile on his face and complete with a Maradona wig in genuine attempt to create Messico ’86, it probably won’t matter very much.

Olé cover from Copa América 2007

Time, just like every right-thinking person, laughs at blogs. But that won’t stop us giving the blade another spin.