Romantic football is dead and gone.
In a season where the media narrative is hailing the current Premier League campaign as a seismic shift back to purism of old, some are finding it increasingly hard to be convinced.
Football in recent years has been subject to many the forensic analysis. As money floods the game and player valuations and salaries go through the roof, supporter disenchantment with the working man’s game continues to proportionally increase. It continues to rise alongside ticket prices, beer prices, burger prices and merchandise prices.
The scrutiny on the game continues unabated. The insatiable appetite of supporters for access to players and the inner workings of a club has only been heightened by the advent of social media and relentless online communities reveling in every moment of their club’s journey.
Leicester City’s marauding stomp to a seemingly inevitable title triumph continues and the media are quick to laud this as a changing of the guard. The Foxes and their squad of seemingly unlikely lads have become the poster boys for a game that is finally reclaiming its soul. But while it is no doubt heartening to see something different to the usual hegemony, this writer is still yet to be convinced that the tide is turning.
The Sunday Times doping claims that surfaced recently cast another shadow over a sport that is becoming increasingly image conscious in the wake of the affluence that surrounds it. But while Mark Bonar’s claims of having worked with players from leading Premier League clubs, Leicester City included, were largely disputed, it is hard to completely dismiss the claims on the grounds that football is the exception to global trends of widespread sporting doping.
Many readers will be old enough to remember what TEB might call the ‘Nandrolone Years‘, that period in the late 90’s and early 00’s when many big name players like Jaap Stam, Edgar Davids and more fell foul to doping authorities following positive tests and faced subsequent bans.
Following a period of reflection, and Rio Ferdinand’s ban for not turning up to a drugs test, there seemed to follow years of silence suggesting the game had miraculously cleaned its act up. So while Bonar’s allegations might be somewhat rogue in their nature, it would be naive to dismiss it out of hand as not being an issue in the game.
Football is epitomised in the modern day as being big business. The imminent television deal gracing the Premier League means that, form a financial perspective at least, the stakes have never been higher. Margins for error are diminishing each year, so much so that the pressure on managers and players has probably never been greater. With the margins so thin, every advantage gained will go a long way.
Doping in football may be something that many do not want to know about, something that people are happy to turn a blind eye to. In particular, those with everything to lose will do all in their power to protect the image of the fabled old game. This was perhaps evidenced by Sky’s deafening silence in reporting on those claims made by the Sunday Times, such was the damage it would do to their own value proposition for the next five years.
Of course, doping is not just consigned to the veins of football’s leading athletes. A far more widespread doping has been permeating across the boardrooms over the last number of years culminating in a stench of petrol, oil, political corruption and Venky’s Fried Chicken prevalent in football grounds. So while clubs further down the food chain glare on in aspirational envy, the larger clubs seem content to widen the gap as much as possible. This despite the Financial Fair Play (FFP) waffle we hear so much about.
While Leicester City’s sugar daddy might not be as suspect as some of those his team have displaced at the top of the table, let us not rush to pat ourselves on the back and claim football has found its identity again.
Some may point at this and argue that here at TEB we are simply being bitter about what has snowballed around us at Palace in recent months, while the Eagles have plummeted towards the drop zone. Who would not be bitter after the trauma the Palace faithful have been subjected to of late?
You could argue that Palace’s turmoil has been more reflective of a traditional romantic tale, a typical relationship cycle that so many of us witness day to day. The initial passion that consumed us when Pardew arrived. The honeymoon period, where intimacy was not an issue and we both freely laughed at each others jokes. The outside world, commenting on how perfect a couple we were. How it was a match made in heaven. How we were both so lucky to have found each other after some abusive relationships in the past.
Then, the rot. No longer were the jokes funny. No longer was the tolerance there. You learn not to get your hopes up that there is a romantic gesture around the corner and everything will return to that wonderful place. That feeling you had at the six month mark where everything was perfect and opportunities endless. When those awkward late night fumbles you now enjoy were majestic all night festivals.
Romance, in every sense of the word in football, is dead. Perhaps we lost a little faith during this dreadful run. Perhaps our love for the sport’s mechanics deserted us a long time ago. Either way, it is increasingly difficult to pick out the purity in a game so devoid of realism.
Maybe I am bitter. Maybe I just need to get to Wembley in two weeks and then everything will be fine.
