Nowhere to hide
FRANK KEATING Clueless about who, where or what to turn to next, I wonder which was history's first body to announce a 'full and far-reaching commission of enquiry' in which to cover itself with a sub judice blanket until the army of furious castigators either runs out of rotten tomatoes or turns their bombardment of scorn to other targets. The English Football Association's 'drastic root-and-branch examination of every aspect' of the national team's past and future performance is neither more, nor less, than that. And however long the charade plays on — however many 'consultation' documents are ordered and foreign 'research' freebies taken — I doubt if the FA, or those of the nation who care, will be any the wiser at the end of it.
Actually, it's easy: all England's national team needs is a group of less gormless players, a fresher, brighter bunch collectively capable of altering lines of communication on the hoof during a match, and sharp enough to realise that individually they might, just might, not be half as glisteningly brilliant as they think, or are told, they are. Then put them in the stewardship of a strict chief coach who can drum into them those two basic competitive principles. It might help, too, if that fellow had a couple of A-levels in man-management and canny media savvy as well as ensuring, in the first place, a cadre of players which could, without thinking about it, use either foot when actually kicking a ball.
Scotland and Northern Ireland each came heroically close to qualifying for the 2008 European finals; England came closer, but dismally, humiliatingly. It seems quite possible to me that none of the (what we used to call) 'home nations' will ever again qualify for the finals of a major competition. Postmortems will blame the foreigners, of course — cricket has gone through this: most of the players in those unbeatable West Indian and Australian Test sides of the last three decades graduated from finishing-school in the English county championship. Similar now at football: in the Premiership's inaugural season 15 years ago, the foreign presence in England's leading competition was, in percentage terms, 20.8; five years later it was 43.6; in 2002 the figure had risen to 56, and at the end of the 2006-07 season it was 60 per cent, that is 164 out of 272.
The cream of the classy, confident Croatian team which so silkily showed up England on the Wembley mudpatch last week had Premiership experience. From the first, they had total command of the native clodhoppers. It reminded me of the tale told me by my friend Harry Pearson, the Guardian's irrepressible Teeside corr and lifelong Middlesbrough FC martyr. A few seasons ago, when the hapless McClaren was manager, 'Boro bought Croatia's sleek striker Alain Boksic from Juventus and paid him a whacking £63,000 a week. Trouble was, the Armanisuited smoothie star had to partner, up front, the perspiring native and 'heavy-booted bustler' Noel Whelan, who at one point in his 'attacking' career had scored more goals in his own net than he had the opposition's.
Apparently, one Monday, after a particularly inept display by his strike partner, Boksic raged into the manager's office. 'How much you pay this Whelan each week, and how long his contract?' Both questions were answered. Next morning, Boksic returned, waving a cheque: 'Here all the money Whelan will earn for the rest of his time here. Please, give it to him today — and tell him to eff off immediately!'
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